The Colour of Blood
by muentiger
Summary: The War is over, and the Dark Lord has won. In a world without magic, he rules supreme, his greed for power ever unyielding. America lays in ruins, the souls of millions at his whim. Welcome to the first Hunger Games of Panem. May the odds be ever in your favour.
1. District Four

**A/N: Hello, all. I'm awfully sorry for the delay on the first chapter of this. I could give a dozen possible excuses, but I decided to settle on the fact that I was truly blocked on how to properly write this. The Hunger Games was an amazing novel, and I wanted to do it justice. To summarise, for any first-time visitors to this story, this chronicles the First Hunger Games of Panem, and how they TRULY came about. I won't switch much between points-of-view, but you'll see several perspectives. A final thank you goes out to the creators of the wonderful Tributes for these Games: the Elves, Batmarcus, ShadowDragon654, freakazoid123, InTheDarknessWithNoLight, HungerGamesFan3000, CarCar, The Freak of Nature, hungergamesfan10, Lets say nonexistent, Prim and Rue, VacantHearts, Are you crying Samurai, Rise of the Lemming and the many, many more who I feel utterly guilty for forgetting. I'm not usually this harebrained, I promise. This first chapter goes out to Wolfie and the French version of me. Without you two, I would have never had the guts to post this. I love you guys!**

Trix's POV

America. That was where I used to live. A country where we were free, given rights no one could violate.

This is no longer America.

When the War broke out, my parents fled here, in the hope of escaping the Dark Lord's grip. Voldemort had risen once again, worse than before.

Here, my parents felt safe, and so did I. How wrong we were!

We took solace in the silence from Britain, as we had not yet realised its true meaning. 3 years after Voldemort had been reincarnated, Britain fell under his rule. Every witch or wizard had to surrender their power to him, or die themselves. His empire spread, from Britain, to the rest of the world. Asia first, then Africa, and then us.

They attacked from every angle, and we were rendered powerless in an instant. We were nothing compared to his army.

Just like he had done in Britain, we were forced to give up our powers. My father, a man of immense pride, had refused, and was killed before my very eyes. Our stature, our blood, our humanity, was suddenly nonexistent.

The process was painless, really. One spell, and my powers were taken from me. I was stripped of what made me who I was. We had all become equal, in his eyes.

He was Superior to us all, the magic flowing only through him.

Families were split up, mothers from children, as the Dark Lord sent orders for our quarantine. Districts were created, from one to thirteen, each with one purpose: to serve the Capitol. I was lucky, for my mother and brother were drawn into the same district as I was.

At first, District 4 seemed like a paradise. Miles of beach and clear, blue water. We always had enough to eat, and all that we could ever need.

The Government provided us with housing as well: a small, dense house on the outskirts of the city. When we first arrived, a note lay on the table, written by an aristocratic hand. _We are all equal now._ Such cruelty had never been known before. The basement was spacious, and I had found a stash of contraband medical equipment under the floorboards. While my mother sold the fish we were able to catch by the shores, I began to provide healing services to the population. Everything seemed at peace, as though we had returned to normal.

Finally, our foolish mirage was destroyed by the arrival of Peacekeepers: Death Eaters and loyal supporters of our Emperor. They were the first implementation of our new government, if you could call it that. Peacekeepers were given freedom to do what they wished, and our house became a safe haven for those seeking protection. My mother, even as a Muggle, had retained her ability to talk her way out of any situation. While she hid their location, I would heal them. Victims of rape, beatings or malnutrition began lining up at our doors, begging for help.

The treatment culminated in the appointment of our new president, who seemed to be abnormally young for a position of such high power. All we knew was that he had been a loyal follower of the Dark Lord, and would create a utopia the likes of which we had never imagined.

News of a new method of terror reached us, in the form of an escapee from the British Isles, although they were no longer known as such. Britain had become Aether, America had become Panem.

The ruler of Aether, a cruel man by the name of Ignis, had declared the inception of the Hunger Games, a method of suppressing any rebellion previously considered. 16 children from the ages of 12 to 18 were chosen, to fight to the death in front of an audience. The drawing was meant to be random, but we knew better. Their First Games had proven to be a huge success, the hopes of many extinguished by this bloodshed. The entire District was forced to watch, under the omniscient eyes of the Capitol. People died before our very eyes, lovers pitted bitterly against each other. All of a sudden, silence had gripped our house, no one speaking as we watched the final minutes of the Games. We did not speak for weeks after that, our vocal chords eradicated by the gravity of what we had just witnessed.

For several months, things had gone back to normal. Schools opened again, and the violence of the Peacekeepers became less evident.

It took the careless words of our leader to change that.

_"People of Panem. I am pleased to announce the inception of our own beloved Hunger Games!"_

I had never seen my mother cry, until that day. Neither my brother nor I could calm her, until our Aetherean refugee carried her into her room, telling us she'd be better in the morning.

Months of preparation followed, anyone having taken tesserae was given multiple entries. I had taken several myself, on behalf of those who needed them. In total, I had about 5 entries, but I could not know for sure. Many tried to escape, but none got far. As soon as they had passed the boundaries of the Districts, they were gunned down by the Borderkeepers, Peacekeepers assigned to the great unknown found beyond District Lines. Their bodies were buried in the lot beside ours, with no funeral or respect. Just a pile of corpses, covered in dirt.

As the day of the reaping grew closer, my mother barred herself in her room, only emerging occasionally to grab a piece of bread. Richard, who had finally conceded to telling us his name, took over, making sure the victims remained hidden, and that my brother and I were well fed and taken care of. However, we made sure to never mention the Games around him, as his eyes went blank and he broke whatever he held when we did so.

It was time. Today was the Reaping. 26 people would be chosen, to fight to the death. For glory, for Panem. For the entertainment of the populace.

"Trix!" I heard a voice yelling, followed by the pounding of fairly small feet. "Trix!"

"What is it, Ed?" I asked grumpily, my mane of hair obstructing my view. Luckily enough, Ed was 6 years younger than me, so his name had no chance of being drawn from the Ball later this afternoon.

"It's Abby! Her leg is all blown up and stuff!" he shrieked, and I shot up, giving myself but a second to recover. Ed was standing by the door, already dressed in his neat school clothes, and I glanced at the clock beside my bed. It was 5 o'clock in the morning, the sun not having yet risen. Pulling a ratty sweater over my head, I seized the medical kit from the floor and sprinted down the stairs, reaching the makeshift hospital we had created in the basement.

To many, this was a place of misery. Down here, it stunk of infection, pus, and decaying flesh. The conditions weren't ideal, as the hospital beds were practically piled on each other. Many had taken to laying on the floors, just waiting until care could arrive. Often times, we faced shortages of medical supplies, and we were forced to reuse syringes and scalpels. I had learned everything I knew in the moment. To the despair of my father, I had never relied too much on magic, and Muggle medicine had always fascinated me. Never, however, did I imagine that, at the age of 16, I would be taking care of 20 patients at a time.

After some struggle, I reached Abby's bed, which had been placed into the darkest corner. She was a young girl of 12, who had been found in the streets by Ed, on the verge of death. Her parents had been separated from her during the Migration, and she had been shunned from society because of her disease. Large nodules littered her face, her arms and her legs, rendering her nearly incapable of movement. Thankfully, some grateful patients had brought back a store of Dapsone, a medicine used by many doctors to combat her disease before the Invasion. The Capitol had deemed it unworthy, and had been in the process of dumping it when they managed to sneak away a crate. The supply wouldn't last the poor girl forever, but it would have to do for now. Except for my brother and I, people tended to avoid her. Leprosy wasn't a contagious condition when treated by medication, but her appearance scared many off before they got a chance to know her.

Over the years, she had improved slightly, even letting me attempt to remove the nodules that had covered her mouth. Infection littered the confines of this area like a plague, however, and I immediately chastised myself for leaving her there after surgery. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever met, and I knew that my brother had grown to like her quite a bit.

"Morning, Abby. Can you tell me what's wrong?" I asked her softly, placing my hand against her forehead. Immediately, I withdrew, feeling her skin as hot as a boiling pot of water.

"My leg hurts, and it's really cold in here!" she whispered back, her teeth chattering as her body began convulsing under the threadbare blanket.

"Bloody hell," I swore, opening my bag and rifling through its contents. My fingers finally came across a large syringe, which I retracted, making sure to hide it from view. She was deathly afraid of needles.

"Ed, bring me those bags of saline I keep in the fridge. She'll be fine, don't worry," I assured him, as he opened his mouth to protest. Without delay, he gave her hand one final squeeze and ran up the stairs noisily.

Taking a deep breath, I plunged the syringe into the nodule on her leg, pulling the plug to reveal a thick, opaque liquid. _How the hell does this keep happening?_

"Trix!" I heard a voice yell, and Ed showed up beside me, his eyes held fervently on the syringe in my hand. "It can't be," he muttered, dropping the bag unceremoniously onto the bed. As I glanced up, I saw him sitting by her head, wrapping his hand firmly in hers.

Hanging the bag above her head, I attached the crude IV line I had fashioned for her to the opening at the bottom. Thankfully, it began working instantly, the icy liquid dripping into her veins. I let out a sigh of relief, running my tired hands through my hair.

"Ed, go and have breakfast. I'll stay here and keep an eye on her," I told him, but he shook his head adamantly.

"I'm not leaving, Beatrice. YOU said you had fixed her, that she was going to get better. This," he said, gesturing to the now still body of the girl beside him,"is not better. Maybe you should go out for a bit, convince yourself this wasn't your fault," he spat bitterly, the tears shining from his eyes.

Silently, I gathered the bag and retreated from the basement, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to glance back. Ed had began to murmur to her, whilst dabbing her forehead and neck with a wet towel.

The kitchen was vacant, a single ray of sunlight shining into the window from across the water. Depositing my bag on the bench in the hallway, I collapsed onto the chair in front of the wooden table, burying my head in my arms. _I shouldn't have said that. Stupid!_

We didn't know much about Abby's life on the streets. Not even she remembered, to be honest, and what little she could recall, she refused to speak about. People did not acknowledge her existence in the city, so we had been unable to garner a patient history from the residents. Most of them were fairly wealthy, isolating themselves from the rest of us in an attempt to be superior. Children of these families were pulled out of school at the announcement of the Reaping, to be trained for the Games. Although, how one could be trained for such slaughter and death, I could never comprehend.

By chance, one of my patients had formerly been in the Military, and chose to repay me by teaching me all he knew. When I had first met him, he was unable to walk, his back broken from being beaten by the Peacekeepers. After many months of struggle, I consented to performing my first surgery on his back, merely to screw the disks back into place. The methodology had been crude: weights tied to a makeshift rope made out of sturdy fishing line. It had taken hours to reset his spine into proper formation, and several more for me to screw the disk into place. His recovery had been long, but it had succeeded, and he was now one of my closest friends.

I exhaled sharply as I felt a hand on my shoulder, and whipped around, my hand automatically going to the pocket where I had always kept my wand. My wizarding instincts had refused to disappear into a blissful obscurity, choosing instead to resurface for the sole purpose of tormenting me with what I used to be.

"It's just me," the man replied, withdrawing his hand from my shoulder to make a pot of tea.

"Sorry, Richard. Good morning," I muttered, and I saw a rare smile cross his lips. "How is she doing?" I asked, and the smile faded from his face.

Several minutes of silence passed, allowing the tension in the room to become tangible. He continued brewing tea and buttering a slice of bread before setting it on the table, and pushing it towards me. I shot him my best attempt at a scathing look and he rolled his eyes, before throwing me a green apple from the counter.

"She's been better, Trix. Today's the Reaping, you can't expect her to be miraculously healed," he replied silently, taking a careful sip from the tea in the cup.

"One can always hope," I reminded him and he chuckled, mussing up his hair with a free hand. Richard may not have been in the prime of his youth, but one could see he was a true child at heart, under the war-hardened crust he had developed over the years.

"What happened?" he asked me suddenly, and I took a venomous bite out of my apple, shuddering in response. I adored apples beyond myself, but the sound of a person sinking their teeth into the fruit sent chills down my spine. Ed always called it a love-hate relationship.

"Abby. The treatment isn't working," I told him, and he nodded solemnly, placing a hand on mine.

"You know it's not your fault," he stated, and I shook my head, the tears forming in my eyes.

"There's always something that I miss. An underlying factor, a pre-existing condition, SOMETHING. But I still promise him that THIS treatment will work, only to see his hopes be broken as she gets worse," I cried, burying my face in my hands once more.

A pair of arms pulled me off the table and into the embrace of the man who I had begun to think of as a father. He didn't say anything, just held me tightly as I wept onto his sweater. His scent was oddly comforting, a mix of tea leaves, mint, and salt water. I knew he had just come in from a swim, something that had now become routine for him.

"Trix, listen to me," he whispered, and I pulled away, looking into my big, watery eyes.

"Not even you can fix everything. People spend their lives searching for a greater purpose, and you have found it by accident. Tens of people owe you their lives, sweetheart, you cannot ask for more. I'm not saying that Abigail will die, but, at some point, someone will. Death is inevitable, a fact of life. It's foolish to think otherwise," he said softly, his voice weary with sorrow.

"She's so young, though. If it would make a difference, I'd give my life for hers," I breathed, as he wiped the tears off my face with a finger.

"I know you would. That's why she will survive," he assured me, placing a kiss on my head as he pushed the plate towards me again. "Now, eat. You'll need your strength. Caolan stopped by last night. He wants you at 6 o'clock sharp. If you arrive any later, it'll mean push-ups," he snickered and I glanced at the clock on our wall. I had 15 minutes left!

"Make sure Ed gets some food?" I smiled nervously at Richard, and he sent me a patronising glare in response.

"No, I thought I'd just let him starve. Yes, you ninny, I'll take care of him. Go and have fun," he commented, taking a sip of tea before pulling me into another hug. "Take the back path. Peacekeepers are on the hunt today," he whispered into my hair, and I nodded, rushing up the stairs to change into my fight clothes, consisting of a pair of shorts and a makeshift Aikidogi top that I had made out of an old sail.

The back path to Caolan's house was taken through a small tributary by canoe. Peacekeepers generally kept this area under a close eye, but they couldn't prevent people from fishing in the area because of its plentiful shellfish supply. I stashed my canoe in a hollow tree on the banks, as it was only big enough for one person anyways. His house rested in the swamplands further inward, no more than a small shack to house his belongings. During the Migration, he had lost his wife and daughter, who were transferred to District 7 instead. He constantly attempted to escape, but he had been caught every time.

As I pulled the canoe on the shore, a hand descended on my shoulder and I smirked, whirling around and kicking my attacker's hand away, before knocking him off balance with a well-placed throw. He rolled back onto his feet and punched viciously, giving me an opportunity to deflect the attack, and twisting him into a pin, meant to twist his shoulder out of the socket.

"You're on time," he commented, as his hand met the ground below him, a nonverbal way of telling me that he surrendered.

"You should threaten me with push-ups more often," I replied, and he chuckled, jumping back on his feet. "No hug?" I frowned, holding out my arms in a gesture of defeat.

"Demanding child," he grumbled, before grudgingly accepting a hug on my part.

"You love me," I said confidently and he shrugged nonchalantly, gesturing at the open door.

"Want something to eat before we start? I made some ice cream last night," he offered and I grinned in response, nodding fervently, before bowing as I crossed the threshold. His home looked as though it came from another time, the walls lined with Japanese memorabilia and artefacts. I noticed a new carving on the shelf, and inspected it closely as he pulled out two bowls from his ice-chamber. Since any technology, save for the televisions mandatorily housed in our homes, had been banned by the Capitol, he had constructed his own fridge under the floorboards, lined with a complicated magnetic system I failed to comprehend. Caolan was much smarter than he looked, as he bore a striking resemblance to the idiots that attended school. His face was lined with hints of age, but his eyes twinkled playfully whenever we practised together. The fridge we kept in our wall had been another gift of his.

"The sculpture doesn't have eyes," I told him, closing my eyes as I let the flavour of the cold concoction wash over me. Green Tea and Lemon ice cream. My favourite.

"Of course. I only have eyes for you," he winked, and I felt myself blush out of instinct. In general, I wasn't accustomed to male attention, even after receiving way too many slurs from drunken patients of mine.

"Shut up," I stuck my tongue out and he laughed loudly, scooping into his own bowl with fervour.

"The Reaping is today," he stated, as though such conversation were normal in our society. The humidity in the air grew tenfold, and I tied my hair out of my face to prevent it sticking to my face.

"It is," I conceded, looking him straight in the eyes. For once, I saw an expression of serious concern in his eyes, even though his body did not move a micrometer.

"How many entries?" he demanded and I worried my lip between my teeth before setting the spoon down and walking over to the sculpture once more.

"5 at least. Maybe more. I don't keep track," I replied finally, and I heard him exhale sharply, though he hid it well by turning his back and fussing with the dishes. In truth, he was 14 years older than I was, but the War had put him through a great deal of turmoil, as revealed by the scars and worry lines on his face.

"Are you scared?" he asked me, and I crossed the room to the weapons stand, where the swords, staffs and knives were arranged in a precise manner on the cherry-coloured wood.

"Yes," I replied truthfully, and he turned me around violently, making me stare into his eyes.

"Don't be. They won't stand a chance," he smirked, and I punched him in the abdomen, which ultimately hurt me more than it hurt him.

"Shall we get to work then? Can't be late to the Reaping," I whined, and he nodded, gesturing for me to pick up a sword from the shelf.

Two hours later, we finished our practice, my body coated in a layer of sweat.

"That was really good. Remember-" he began, panting slightly as he deposited the sword onto the stand.

"To be precise when striking with a sword. I won't forget," I completed his sentence and he chuckled at the look of pure exhaustion on my face. He handed me a glass of water in silence, avoiding to look me in the eye as I drunk it down feverishly.

"Caolan, what's wrong?" I asked him and he sighed, wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.

"One would think I had gotten used to the Capitol's cruelty. Today is March 15th. It's the anniversary of the Migration," he breathed shakily, downing a shot glass of Sake in the blink of an eye. His head was turned away from me, something I found odd. He never hid anything from me.

"Don't lie to me. There's something else," I demanded and he looked up at me, a man defeated by his grief. His normally lively eyes were clouded with tears and the lines on his face were more prominent than ever.

"My little girl is 12 now. She could be reaped today," his voice cracked, and the glass slipped from his hand, falling onto the wood in a million pieces. The sound of the glass shattering shook deep into my heart, and I rushed over, pulling the man into my arms.

"She won't be reaped. Her name is in there once, she'll be fine," I whispered continuously, as he clung onto my shirt for dear life.

"Look at me, Trix," he said suddenly, and I turned my head down. We remained that way for a while, just looking into each other's eyes in silence, before he stood and walked into the room he had built for himself to the side of the main atrium.

"This is the only thing I have left of my wife's. When I first met her, I remember that I spilled the contents glass down my shirt as she entered. I think you should have it, for today," he recounted, stepping out of the room with a hanger in his hand. On it lay a delicate silk dress, a dragon woven into the elegant bodice. It was simple, yet beautiful, the bottom revealing a slight slit that would go mid-thigh. Under normal circumstances, I would have never considered that.

"I can't take that-" I objected, but he cut me off, raising a hand to silence my protest.

"Please. She wouldn't want me to linger on lost memories. And let's not forget that I know you do not possess anything suitable to wear," he joked lamely, and I smiled, raising myself from the ground to take the dress into my hands. The fabric slid across my skin like water, and seemed to weigh close to nothing.

"You know me too well," I admitted, cleaning the glass of the floor and sweeping it into the garbage box by the door. "It's time," I told him, the words sounding melodramatic to my own ears. _In 30 minutes, you could be handed a death sentence._

"Good luck," he whispered, pulling me into a tight embrace, and releasing me with a kiss atop my forehead.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I promised him, bowing out of the house as I sprinted to the shore.

The trip back was shorter this time, heightened by the fact that I was dreading my return. Everyone I had seen had inquired into my tesserae count, and I had lied to every one of them. Including the 4 I had gathered by virtue of age, I had taken 15 extras for my past patients. Nineteen entries. Nineteen chances to die.

I could only hope that someone would volunteer in my place.

Our house was quiet as I entered, the kitchen as vacant as I had found it. A lone note lay upon the counter, and I picked it up, recognising my brother's untidy scrawl within a second.

_"Gone to town for food. See you at the Reaping."_

Never before had 10 words wounded me as they did now.

I made one final tour of the basement before getting dressed, adjusting bandages and blankets as I passed. Abby laid in her bed, as still as a board of wood, though her eyes were wide open.

"Hey there. You feeling better?" I whispered, brushing the stray hairs off her forehead. She smiled brightly, and tried to sit up, only to have her arms collapse beneath her weight.

"I'm much better! Where'd Ed go?" she inquired, her eyes roaming the dark depths of the room.

"Just to town. He'll be back soon," I lied smoothly, smiling slightly at the hopeful look in her eyes. We had not told her of the Reaping, and I couldn't bring myself to confess the truth to her. Her name was not in the Ball luckily enough, as we had not registered her when the Peacekeepers gathered information. Instead, my mother put down an alias of Ashmoa Daveson in her place. If the name was called, I was to step forward as tribute, in her place. We were more afraid of a home raid during the Reaping, as all people were required to attend, under the penalty of death.

20 entries.

"Could you tell me that story again?" she asked shyly, peering at me from under her reddish lashes. She truly was very, _very _pretty.

"Oh, I guess," I sighed dramatically and she laughed at the dejected look that framed my visage. A single curl fell into my eyes as I pulled up a chair, which she tentatively moved to the side, her arm shaking with the effort of doing so.

"Once upon a time, back when the Greeks ruled the earth, there was a man named Orpheus who loved a beautiful nymph named Eurydice. He finally married her, but a god by the name of Aristaeus, who ruled over land and farming, fell madly in love with her as well. But Eurydice refused him, and while running away from him, fell into a pit of poisonous snakes," I recounted, as Abby gasped, placing a pale hand over her mouth. I had told her this story hundreds of times, but she never failed to express her reactions as though it was the first time.

"Orpheus was distraught, and played his music by her side, the exquisite music making all gods and nymphs weep along with him. Desperate to get his love back, Orpheus traveled to the Underworld, and sang for Hades and Persephone, the rulers of the Dead. Their hearts having been softened by his hymns, they agreed to let Eurydice leave the Underworld with him on one condition: he must walk in front of her and not look back until they had both reached the world of the living. Alas, he forgot about his promise in the haze of love, and turned back while she was still in the Underworld. Before his eyes, she vanished once again, never to be seen again. It is said that Orpheus swore never to love another woman until his own death after that day," I concluded, staring at the blank expanse of wall behind her.

A strangled sniffle brought me back to life, and I saw her crying shamelessly from the corner of my eye. Every time I told her the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, she wept at the end, not bothering to cover up her emotions like most people would. In truth, I knew not why she bore such an affinity to the tragic tale, requesting it whenever she got a chance.

"Trix, promise me Ed will come back today. From the Reaping," she said shakily, her hands trembling slightly as she curled into a ball under the cover.

"How did you know?" I gasped, and she shrugged slightly, turning her almond-shaped brown eyes towards me.

"I've always been good at faking sleep. Some of the patients were talking, and I overheard," she explained, her voice small as she did so. "He'll come back, right?" she repeated, and I pulled her into my arms, placing a kiss on her head as I rocked her back and forth.

"I swear to you, he will be fine," I whispered, feeling her head nod against my chest in response.

"Go get pretty. I'll be waiting for you," she grinned, as she lay back, folding her hands across her chest like Snow White. Within seconds, her breathing evened, and I climbed up the stairs into my room.

My hands began to tremble as I slipped into the dress, zipping it behind my back deftly. Turning to the mirror, I couldn't hold back a small gasp. I had misjudged its length earlier, as it truly came only to mid-thigh, revealing more skin than I ever would have dared. The collar covered a third of my neck, and the short sleeves reached barely across my shoulders. Though the dress was simple, the fabric was beautiful, revealing patterns as I turned in the light.

Letting my dark hair out of the confines of the hair clip, I let it fall into wild curls on my shoulders, framing my heart-shaped face with ease. My eyes were framed with a light line of a charcoal-based makeup Abby had gifted me for my birthday last year, joking that even my eyes needed some more attention.

Truly, I loathed my appearance. I had always looked like my father, who hadn't cared much for me, instead of my mother, who was a true beauty. My hair was dark, curling elegantly or frizzing uncontrollably depending on its mood. I wasn't very thin, despite the meagre amount of food granted to us by the government. Over time, I had developed muscle, but I retained a slight amount of fat that made me curvier than the average girl. The only things I admired about my appearance were my eyes. Fairly large, yet almond-shaped, they were blue in colour, but with streaks that alternated between a yellow-green and grey. I loved the fact that they changed constantly, never achieving a set iridescence.

However, I never fussed with my appearance that much. In school, I was known to be the obnoxious know-it-all, going so far as to correct teachers on their errors. The scars of the whipping on my back were enough proof of my insubordination. Several days after the whipping, I met my first, and only, friend. She was generally much more exuberant than I was, and helped me open up to the rest of the student populace. As soon as the Hunger Games were announced, she fled, barely making it past the borders before she was shot. I saw her body being burnt in the pit beside the fences, her body thrown into the pile as though she had been naught but a rag doll.

Shaking myself out of my reverie, I finished strapping on the old pair of sandals that used to belong to my mother, and slipped out of the house, my head held high as I strolled into town.

The streets of the normally bustling city were eerily empty, the stores bearing signs indicating that they had closed for the day. As per usual, the posters of the Capitol's emblem lined every available surface, and several flyers were swept across the stone roads. Peacekeepers lined every alley, their eyes trained on my procession through the city.

Finally, I reached the town centre, a small gasp escaping my mouth. Adults lined the outsides, separated from their children by an electrified barrier. Meanwhile, children were being herded like animals into groups by age, with the youngest nearest to the stage. Peacekeepers dressed in blood red lined the stage, where two translucent balls were being filled with the entries. Pink slips flew into one, the blue slips into the other. Three chairs adorned the back of the stage, guarded by Peacekeepers I recognised. One had bludgeoned Caolan half to death, and the other had raped a woman who had disappeared since I had treated her. On one chair sat the Mayor, his puff of white hair tied into a tail behind his neck. He was a good man, one that we had known before the Migration, but fear of the Capitol led him to allow the Peacekeepers their free rein. Beside him sat a kind-looking woman with large brown eyes that spoke, like Caolan's, of unimaginable horror, whose identity I could not place.

My eyes roamed the crowd of adults, scanning the faces for a familiar visage. Richard and Mum were standing towards the back, Richard's arms wrapped tightly around the body of my weeping mother. Several feet in front of them stood Caolan, uncharacteristically dressed in a neat suit, and his hair styled into a not-so-messy mop on his hair. As he spotted me, he gave me a small, twinkle-eyed smile, and gestured for me to continue into the line.

The mass of children filed neatly into line by age, the strays kicked into rough sectors by the Peacekeepers. Several had taken a liking to one of the younger girls, hitting her with batons as she hobbled into line, her ginger locks hanging limp about her head. She was wearing ratty, worn clothes, and she reminded me a lot of one of my patients. I didn't have much time to linger on the fact, however, as our Sponsor cleared his throat from the stage.

All eyes turned to the clock located on the floor of the town square, which rang the precise time with ominous precision. The floor beneath us shook, adults and children alike grasping the nearest person for support.

Our mayor stepped forward, casting his guard off with a look and adjusted the microphone to his tall height.

"Welcome, people of District 4, to the First Hunger Games of Panem. I would like to take this time to recount the story of our great nation, and its fair Lord as well," he stammered, his hands shaking as he turned the cards in his hands.

My ears drowned out the propaganda, the lies we were being fed with ease. It wasn't as though we hadn't heard it before. He spoke of how we had been formerly a lost, wayward nation, and how a saviour had arrived to bring order and peace. The Games were intended as a celebration, as a way of uniting our fair land under the common flag of death.

"Allow me to introduce the District 4 sponsor, Cornelius Zaid!" the mayor shouted, and I glanced up, noticing how his eyes were focused straight on me.

"Thank you, Mayor Scudder! Happy Hunger Games to you all!" he exclaimed, nearly shoving the mayor into the crowd as he strutted to the podium, his pointed nose held high. The first thing I picked up was, honestly, the most obvious one. Cornelius was dressed in a manner that would have made anyone laugh, had they not been under threat of death for doing so. Bright blue and orange hair had been tied into dreadlocks, which hung down his back loosely. His eyes sported an involuntary amount of silver glitter, which seemed to cover his entire skin like an iridescent bodysuit. Diamond flake implants, for sure. A new fad spawned from the unnaturally pale skin of our President. What a joke. Cornelius looked like a bloody fairy princess.

"I must say, this is one of the most palatable Districts I have ever visited. Full of virile young men and unrelenting young women ready to bring glory to their families," he smiled emphatically, revealing two rows of bright white teeth many would have killed to achieve.

"With this day, the beginning of a new era dawns on Panem. One greater than what we have ever known before. Thus I feel obligated to say, to each and every one of you: May the odds be ever in your favour," he announced, with a dramatic flourish that made me wish nothing more than a slow, painful death for him. I may have been a pacifist, but gore, and a vivid imagination led to my obsession with torturous deaths. Especially for those who deserved it.

"Ladies first," he whispered, his voice suddenly ominous as he slunk over to the glass bowl filled with pink slips that are sealed off from the world. With a sudden lunge, his hand darted forward, withdrawing a slip from the bottom of the bowl. My breath froze in my throat, and the rumble of voices silenced around me, leaving the crowd silent as a grave.

The paper was unfolded from its star-shape by deft, thin fingers that glinted in the sunlight before Cornelius smirked, raising the paper into the air with a triumphant glint in his yellow eyes.

"Beatrice Donovan," his accented voice enunciated, and I cannot help but let out a sharp gust of air. I had been chosen to die. To go against everything I believed in and murder children like myself for fun. Emotion was erased from my mind, instinct telling me to run, and never look back. Glancing back, my eyes meet those belonging to Caolan, and he nods, his jaw tense beneath his skin. _Don't give in. _

Silently, I step up, my shoes not making a sound against the floor. _To hell with entertainment. If I die, I will not be forgotten. _

As I climb up the stairs, I hear a raucous cough from the line of twelve year olds, where a girl is waving her hands desperately. The girl with the red hair. Abigail.

"I think we may have a volunteer on our hands," Cornelius smiled predatorily, his eyes lingering over the spot where Abby was choking out her words.

"V-Volunteer," she finally gasped, leaning against the girl who stood beside her, who immediately recoiled at the sight of her blotched face.

The look in Cornelius' eyes sent a shiver down my back and I set my jaw, climbing the final steps to the stage, my mouth barely an inch from the man's ear.

"Don't even think about touching her," I spat, turning towards the microphone, a fire igniting inside of me that I had never fully felt before. _This_ was anger, not the meagre arguments I had gotten into with patients over treatment.

"I accept my Reaping with gracious humility. It gives me great joy to know that I shall be able to bring honour to my family, and to this wonderful District. My name is Beatrice Donovan, and I am sixteen years old," I spoke into the device, my voice amplified above the town square hundredfold. Among the crowd, I spotted many people with wide eyes, glancing at me as though they could not believe it. They knew I loathed the Capitol with a passion, and many had witnessed my whipping so many years ago. Cornelius was glaring daggers into my back, and I raised my head high, throwing my curls over my shoulder as I stepped back, my hands held tightly behind my back.

"Now, for the Gentlemen," he said softly, putting particular emphasis on the 'G' in his pronunciation.

He did not bother making as big a show of it as he did with my Drawing, choosing to instead draw from the top of the pile. The shape was nearly ripped open, scraps of blank paper falling to the ground in his haste.

"Seb-" he began, but another voice rose above his, originating from the back of the crowd.

"I volunteer," a boy said, his hair covering the intense look in his eyes as he walked onto the stage, grimacing at the Peacekeepers as he walked by.

"What an eager young lad! Tell us, my boy, what is your name?" Cornelius piped up, his excitement reignited by the appearance of a volunteer.

"Toshka Vlast. I'm twelve. Now, please remove your hand from my shoulder if you value it in any manner," he glared at Cornelius, who merely smiled threateningly at the young boy beside him.

Mayor Scudder stepped up, unrolling a scroll from its grip and began reading it aloud to me.

"Let it be known to all inhabitants of the District that Treason to the Capitol is punishable by death. Our land is meant for those worthy of life, and those unwilling to abide by the regulations shall be liquidated. As Mayor, as Servant of our Lord, I wish to remind you that the Capitol only exists to provide peace and order. May the Hunger Games begin," he breathed, before taking ahold of my hand and Toshka's, lifting them into the air. Under the glare of Peacekeepers, the crowd clapped soberly, their faces emotionless as our hands fell motionless by our sides.

An armed Peacekeeper, the one responsible for Caolan's injuries, stepped beside me, gripping my elbow in a vice grip. Wrenching it out with a simple manoeuvre, I arranged my dress and sent him a look that clearly told him I could walk myself.

As we stepped of the stage and up the stairs into the golden Justice Building, a pink paper flew to my feet, carried by the sea breeze that I had always loved. Bending down, I recognised it as my Reaping entry and I unfolded its creases, smoothing it out over the palm of my and, as though to prove that this was truly happening to me. That I was truly going to die.

The words upon the paper read Ashmoa Daveson.

**A/N: So, how was it? And yes, Trix used to be a witch. This is important. I want to know guesses as to the identities of the Mentor(or is it Mentress?) and the President. I assure those of who have read Harry Potter do know them, you just don't know it yet. And I am aware that I need to change this into a cross-over...as soon as I figure out how. Please leave a review with your first impressions of the story, as well as any critique or suggestions you may have. Flames and hugs are equally accepted in my eyes. Thank you for reading, and may the odds be ever in your favour!(That was cheesy, wasn't it? Ah, well)**


	2. The President's Lament

**A/N: Hey there! I'm right sorry for not having updated sooner, but this character required a lot of introspect. How so, do you ask, self? Well, self and others, while this character is infamous among Harry Potter nerds and fans, I needed to get into his head, after all that he's been through. It's complicated, and I hit a wall of titanium after a while. Thankfully, I made it through, and this is the result. Personally, I'm not sure about how good this chapter is, unlike the previous, which I rather liked. But I've spent too much time sitting on this, and it's time for the world to decide. A huge thanks to SkyeElf, Chi-Chiwawa, Chi-Chiwawa(twice, because I didn't mention her last time), and Raritybell, as well as to those who I know read, but did not review(you know who you are, and you know I'm glaring judgementally). This is also the Reaping chapter, for those of you who are wondering when that will come up. Dedication for this chapter goes out to my dear friend Susan, who helped me get into this characters' head. Without any further ado, enjoy the chapter!**

**Soundtrack Suggestion: A Beautiful Lie by 30 Seconds To Mars, I think it personifies the President perfectly. **

The President's POV

It is both a gift and a curse to be a leader. To many, the prospect of holding the power I wield is akin to a euphoric high one achieves through artificial drugs. They do not understand the price one must pay to achieve such power.

_She fell on the ground, screaming in agony as her locks covered her face, obstructing her eyes from mine. Blocked by the facade of my superiority, I could do nothing. The man strode heavily around her, his hand wielding the whip with utmost precision. I stood no chance. My magic, my soul, my identity, had been stripped from me._

_"Have you made your choice? If not, I am sure that Rosier would be more than happy to persuade you further," the Dark Lord whispered beside me, his face more menacing than ever in its now unlimited ability._

As a child, I dreamt of naught but power. It had been a favourite past-time of mine to use the elves as my minions, as slaves under my commands. Their refusal had been impossible, and the control I had held over them was immeasurable. The years passed me by, but that lust for power, for control, never dissipated. With the return of the Dark Lord, I had been promised infinite glory for the murder of the most powerful wizard of the age, a man I had both despised and idolised. I saw myself as the leader of my generation, the world at my feet. In my head, I believed I had finally achieved what I had strived for all my life. But a pawn does not wield any power.

_My hands trembled as I entered the vast chamber, the Lord's eyes following me closely. I took a hesitant breath and he laughed, the horrid noise of death echoing off the moist walls of the circular room. Looking up, I saw nothing but darkness. The walls bore no doors, no windows. There was no escaping. "You ignorant fool," he jeered, his bloody eyes shining as they bore into my mind. I did not stop him. "Did you truly believe that I would grant you mercy? That all of those worthless souls you killed were simply a test?" He laughed even louder then, and I chanced my life to raise my head and glare at him. "What do you wish of me, my Lord? I have nothing but myself left, and yet you jeer at my hopes. Do what you will, sir, but do not ridicule my hope. It is only human to hope," I whispered, my voice sounding ancient to my own years. How could I have only lived through nineteen summers and winters, yet feel so empty and weary?_

He held me at his mercy, forcing me to prove that I was still of worth to him after I had failed. My mother, my friends - the faces of those I slaughtered in his name haunt me to this day. Years have passed since I had been a child, and I was not yet free. Father could no longer protect me, having been killed in front of me due to my pathetic incompetence. In comparison to many, I was young. But my mind and soul were old, enfeebled by a world in which I did not wish to take part in anymore.

Ironically, as this country lost its freedom they had coveted for so long, I gained mine. The Dark Lord released me, giving me supposed free reign to govern as I saw fit. However, he did not let me leave without stripping me of the one thing I still valued. I was common now, a plebeian ruling over a nation of people too simple-minded to resist. My identity held no meaning, as they had stripped me of my name and given me a new one. For a brief period of time, I had led the country, providing aid to those who had been hurt. I rounded up those who still had magic, and watched their souls be torn apart in front of me. Yet, the Dark Lord was not satisfied.

_"You are weak. How can you leave these vermin to choose their leaders, however minor they may be?" he sneered, his contorted face casting shadows over his eyes. I swallowed heavily and replied, "They may be vermin, but that does not mean they cannot have a choice. Besides, I do not have any means by which to control them." "How dare you sneer down at what I have given you?" he yelled, and I cowered in his wake. "Perhaps I have erred in my decision," he mused to himself, his skeletal hand ghosting over the knotty wand in his palm, an eternal symbol of his superiority. "Very well. It seems that you need proper guidance. I assure you, I shall see to it that Panem is run the way I see fit."_

He sent in the Peacekeepers, an army of his former supporters who were as power-hungry as I used to be. In front of me, my country was torn apart, families separated as individuals were selected for work in Districts, and sent off to live in poverty. Some flourished under the system, former witches and wizards using their former knowledge to grow rich in the gold and diamond mines of Panem. Again, I was a puppet, under the control of those who were subordinate to me. I only existed because he needed me to act his part. To be a leader and "speak to the people". Amazingly, I had not lost my charm or looks after the years of torture I had endured, although that may have been his intent all along.

"Sir?" a voice asked, and I turned around to find my only speaking Housekeeper, Maddox, looking at me worriedly, his eyes sparkling in the light of the afternoon sun. Unlike many other in the Capitol, Maddox remained unchanged in his old age, the wrinkles on his face only outlining the wise man beneath. When I had first come here, I had been disgusted by the attempts of many to make themselves more attractive, changing their appearance with each passing day to fit the newest trend. Even my appearance had become a trend, a fact that appalled me even further. Most of my country lived in squalor, starving from one day to the next, while the wealthy frolicked about in the utopia of the Capitol, fiddling about with their appearances.

"Good afternoon, Maddox. How are you today?" I greeted politely, smiling softly as he rushed about, picking up loose papers and placing books too heavy for him neatly back onto the shelves. In the absence of guidance, I turned to Maddox, who had grown as close to me as a father. He was a silent man of an unimposing stature, though I could not fathom the depths of his intelligence. His opinions would not be voiced unless asked to do so, yet he had been one of little who had volunteered for this position. I suspected he did so to avoid the Migration, and the horrors that would result.

"Quite well, thank you. Mr. Snow wishes to see you immediately," he informed me, waving his hand passively towards the door. Instantaneously, a band of Avox emerged, their heads bowed as they sat a sumptuous afternoon tea at my table, before retreating humbly to their quarters once again.

"How lovely. Does he not have enough torture to create already?" I spat, causing Maddox to flinch away substantially. The inception of the Hunger Games was the conclusion of any authority I had possessed, and my forced endorsement of such a barbaric event had been a humiliation. My prejudice had melted away long ago, as I sought solace from my pains in those I had seen as scum. Twenty-five more innocent souls would die at my hand, because I was too cowardly to refuse. For the next months, I would have to support an act I loathed above all others, an act that I had previously dreamt about.

"It is day of the Reaping, sir," he explained softly, as though the words would tear me apart. He know me only too well. Snow had become the ruthless leader I could never be, but his power was far beyond my own. Peacekeepers, the Games, Avox- they were all under his control. Even me.

"Maddox, may I ask you something?" I turned to him, and he nodded, placing the final book on the shelf and seating himself across from me at the table. With quick fingers, I poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him.

"Thank you, Fawkes," he smiled, and I winced slightly at my pseudonym. Fawkes Drakonis was not me, and I was not him. Maddox knew not of my true identity, and I preferred it as such. My name had given me a mask to hide behind, and solace from the demons of my past. Without conscience, without shame to those that I loved. They would not have to know who truly committed these unspeakable deeds.

"My pleasure. An artist has a right to sample his own work," I smirked and he laughed, sipping the coffee with a practiced hand. I poured myself a cup and stirred it absentmindedly, looking out the balcony at the streets below. It had only been a brief period of time since the Invasion, but the Capitol had changed the city completely. Gone were the idyllic expanses of green land and ageing brick buildings: in its place skyscrapers created a sparkling metropolis of white. There was no such thing as dirt in the Capitol, the mention of it had probably become taboo.

"What was it you wished to ask me?" Maddox interjected, his eyebrow slightly raised as he glanced me full in the eye. I started, and stood shakily, sweeping my hair from my face.

"Why did you stay here, and volunteer to work for me?" I asked, leaning against the railing of my mansion in what I hoped looked like an arrogant pose. He froze slightly, his eyes widening in panic as he cleared his throat and rose from his seat.

"Let me tell you a story," he began, standing beside me with the casual grace my father had possessed. "There was once a boy, who lived a blessed childhood, away from the horrors of the world. He was content with his life, until he reached the age of eighteen. At that age, he met a woman who showed him the rampant inequality among the worlds' people. He, being the fool he was, told her it was simply the way of the world, that nothing could be done in the face of more powerful entities. This naive boy told her that discontent was caused by uneducated citizens, complaining about those who had worked hard for a greater slice of the pie, and that it was the duty of our nation to lead them into the right direction. In his mind, the world was perfect, as everyone was equal under the eyes of the law. The next day, he witnessed a group of hundreds, including his beloved, shot mercilessly by the National Guard. They had been peaceful protestors, objecting against a war that had killed so many innocents. That silly boy inside the man vanished that day, and he vowed to avenge her. When the opportunity arose to become an advisor to one he saw as an equal, he could not resist," he concluded, his eyes darkened by the horrific memories of his past. My breath hitched in my throat, but the tears did not come, as my soul had been too hardened to show such weakness.

"I am sorry, Maddox. For everything," I breathed, and he laughed bitterly, wiping his tears with a stray hand. Turning to me, he pulled me into his arms and wept unabashedly against my shoulder, his tears dampening the thin fabric of my shirt.

As he pulled away, he raised his eyes to mine and nodded solemnly.

"Do not make my mistake, Fawkes. Fight for what you believe in, for what you love. One day, it may al be gone," he smiled and righted himself, standing tall and adjusting his uniform. "Snow is expecting you."

"Oh, must I?" I whined, pouting as best as I could. The man laughed exuberantly, and handed me my jacket, allowing me to slip into it with ease. As I adjusted the jacket, he gathered the plates onto a single tray and snapped his fingers, summoning the Avox to take it away, who disappeared as soon as they had arrived.

"I do believe that answers your inquiry, sir," he bowed deeply and gestured for me to exit, his head inclined slightly as well.

We walked past many corridors, the walls lined with obscure and opulent artwork that I despised to gaze upon. The floors were an iridescent marble that continued on the lower half of the walls, before melting into a blood red paint. I had allowed my chambers to be decorated separately, as I had wished to maintain some pride in my old House.

Finally, we reached the sitting room, a vast abode carpeted in deep gold with walls made of glass. An immense television lined one wall, and a spacious white sofa lay several yards away from it.

The smell of sickeningly sweet roses assaulted my senses as I stepped in, my head held high in a facade of leadership. Coriolanus Snow sat motionless on the edge of the sofa, a red rose placed in the lapel of his jacket. His visage was fairly round and unappealing, the mop of muted orange hair on his head swaying with the faintest breeze. But his eyes were a clear, muddled yellow, akin to a snake's, that held his victims mesmerised as they awaited their doom. To the world, he was merely the Head Gamemaker, the creator of the purgatory those kids would have to face, but he held more power than any of us could imagine. Not even I knew how much power he wielded.

"Ah, President Drakonis. Thank you for joining me," he said cheerily, rising to grip my hand feebly in a handshake. I smiled thinly, shaking his hand firmly in return. "I do believe I brought you some roses, but one of your Avox took them from me before I could hand them to you personally. I imagine they are on their way to your private quarters," he laughed robustly, waving a hand in nonchalance.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Snow. Your visits are always a cause for celebration," I greeted politely, waving my hand to the seats. "Shall we begin?"

He sat himself silently upon the fabric, leaning back against the pillows and appraising me with a blank expression across his face.

"We have several minutes, Fawkes, let us skip the formalities. We're all friends here," he grinned winningly and gave Maddox a friendly punch upon the shoulder, to which Maddox raised an eyebrow, before rolling his eyes and seating himself beside me.

"Indeed we are. Tell me, Coriolanus, how have you been? I suppose the Arena is giving you no trouble?" I inquired, and a devious smirk crossed his white lips.

"You know I cannot divulge any information regarding the Games. But the Arena shall be something for the ages, I can assure you. The inspirational shot that shall be remembered in our great Nation for years to come. I have been quite well, although, I must say, you are looking better than ever! What is your secret?" he gushed, his face blotched red with excitement as he thought of the Bloodbath to come. His overbearingly exuberant attitude disarmed most people, but it was merely an act for the festering cesspool of man that lay beneath.

"Solitude," I answered briefly, turning my attention to the glowing screen. "I do believe the show is beginning," I smirked, leaning back and watching the television grow brighter as the room darkened around us, enshrouding my true emotions in the absence of light.

The screen remained blank as Panem's anthem-a piece of music I associated with funerals and torture-played loudly across the speakers. Glancing to my right, I saw that Snow's eyes were teary, and his hand was over his heart, in an unwavering gesture of patriotism. Finally, the screen darkened, before fading in to reveal a bright television studio, empty save for a blinding man in a plush chair regarding a screen with great interest, a bright smile warping his face. His hair was near-white, and his skin sparkled fiercely below the intense lights of the studio. It was sickening.

"Welcome, welcome, Citizens of Panem. My name is Cosimo Wallensius, and I shall be your gracious host of the very first Hunger Games of Panem!" he announced, the audience applauding wildly in response. Flipping back his hair, he stood from his chair and gave a small bow, before turning to the cameras once more.

"Before we begin, let us quickly review the system of eligibility, shall we? In every District, one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 is chosen to participate in the Hunger Games, an event to be held 3 months from today. They will train and win your favour to compete for glory and fame, as the winner of the Games shall be immortalised forever! Only one can win, and the Games shall be a fight to the death. Survival of the fittest, my dear guests, will be critical. As we speak, the 26 boys and girls are being transported by train to our very own Capitol, their heads held high in the face of certain death. To those lucky, lucky souls, I have only one thing to say: May the odds be ever in your favour!" he stated, his face light with excitement as the crowd roared in agreement, some throwing glitter onto the stage as Cosimo danced about, before settling into his chair, a solemn expression clouding his eyes.

"He seems quite the host, don't you think?" Snow commented, laughing lightly as I shrugged noncommittally. It did not matter how charming the host behind the bloodbath was, the souls of those 25 children would never be salvaged.

"Without further ado, Citizens of Panem, meet your Tributes!" he waved his hand at the wall behind him and the footage began playing, casting a grey shadow against the sparkling white wall.

"We begin with District One," he stated, a rousing concerto commencing at his words. District One had become a source of luxury materials, and their town square certainly revealed as much: buildings plated in gold and citizens dressed in materials the other citizens could only dream of. Their sponsor, a woman clothed in a deep green garb stepped forward, her pale hand diving into a glass orb filled with pink slips of paper. As her hand darted out, a girl from the second row raised her hand grandly, her dark eyes sweeping over the crowd.

"I volunteer," she stated, her voice sweet as honey as she stepped forward, her dress fluttering behind her in the wind. The sponsor, stunned by her interruption, rushed forward to help her, but the girl merely shook her off, turning her head to look at the audience commandingly. The look in her eyes was clear: I own this place. There was no trepidation in her voice as she threw back her reddish hair and glided towards the microphone.

"My name is Sapphira Victoire Golde, I am seventeen years of age and I will be your Tribute," she announced, to a rousing applause. The bile rose to my throat as she retreated slightly, waving to the crowd and throwing kisses to her supporters. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

"It's quite marvellous, isn't it? The kids are so willing to prove their worth!" Snow exclaimed, laughing lightly as Sapphira's features tensed, maintaining their haughty stance. "But she's bound to be a favourite, if her looks are anything to judge by!" he commented off-handedly, pressing a small button on the table. Instantly, a plate of Turkish Delight appeared and he clapped his hands together in glee.

The sponsor regained her composure and walked steadfastly to the remaining orb, this one filled with blue slips. She reached in tentatively though, glancing over the crowd as she drew a paper, unfolding it with a satisfied smirk as no objections were raised.

"Wait," a deep voice issued from the front row. Without fail, the cameras redirected to face a tall boy with sparkling eyes and obsidian curly hair. The Peacekeepers tensed, suspecting a disturbance but the boy just smiled and stepped froward, shrugging lightly.

"I'll volunteer," he told the cameras, climbing firmly up the stairs, his muscles flexing underneath the material of his leather jacket. "Well, the name's Blain Sype, I'm eighteen, and I guess I'll be your tribute for these Hunger Games," he laughed a little, and was met by rousing support, to which he bowed slightly and stepped back, winking playfully at Sapphira, who giggled in return. I couldn't help but let out a small laugh at the behaviour of this girl: she truly was a splendid actress.

"District One, I give you your Tributes," the sponsor announced, clasping their hands in front of the camera and raising them into the air victoriously.

"They'll be a pair to beat, I'd think. Quite the pair of snake charmers," Snow jested, as Maddox tensed slightly, reaching for a piece of delight and placing it in his mouth, chewing softly.

"Charm does not compensate for brains. The girl will go far, but the boy, albeit his impressive musculature, shall die at the hands of someone wiser than he," Maddox spat, earning him a raised eyebrow from Snow. He had never spoken openly about his beliefs to anyone but me before. "But that is just a musing, as I am sure the Arena will test them all."

Snow nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation before turning back to the screen.

"Look, they're beginning once again," he shrieked, as the screen lit up red, the emblem of District Two shining imperiously in silver upon the background.

District Two, being the main manufacturer of weaponry, was composed of former military leaders and scientists pioneering the fields of warfare. Their town centre was a striking contrast to the previous one, being panelled entirely in what looked to be a dense, rust-resistant metal. The figures of the children, dressed exuberantly for the occasion, drew a striking contrast to the material that surrounded them, and yet, the children looked as bloodthirsty as the previous ones. They were trained assassins, born to kill and slaughter those beneath them.

"I visited District Two while I was pondering the Arena. The people are quite driven by their work, and their children are truly magnificent specimens," Snow pointed out, as the sponsor stepped upon the stage. In honour of the District she represented, the sponsor had dressed in a short, black dress embedded with metal, her pale hair spiked threateningly on the top of her hair. Her presence was quite commanding, unlike the more timid approach of the previous one. Rather, she looked as though she loathed even being there. Popping a pink bubble of gum, she stepped to the boys' spiked ball and drew a name from the top, glaring at the group of boys as she unfolded it.

"Lytra Gober," she read, looking over the crowd expectantly, her green eyes narrowing at a boy in the front row. The boy was dark-skinned, with beady eyes and a supposedly arrogant grin permanently plastered to his face. He walked up commandingly, his dark cape sweeping over the stairs as he rose to the stage, smirking winningly as he stomped to the microphone.

"My name is Lytra Gober, and I am eighteen years old. I would be honoured to win the Games in the name of our great District," he spoke clearly, only to be met with a mild applause that grew louder at the command of the Peacekeepers. Lytra must not have been a popular person among his peers. Nevertheless, he spent a great deal of time bowing and throwing kisses to the audience, before the sponsor rolled her eyes and dragged him back, shutting his enthusiasm down with a simple look.

She proceeded to the opposite orb and glared one more towards the female members of the audience before pulling a card and glancing upon it without interest.

"I volunteer," a girl said, parting the crowd with a glare just as menacing as the one of her sponsor's. She took her time proceeding to the stage, her leopard print hat covering her eyes as she climbed the stairs effortlessly, pulling off her hat as she reached the top. I gulped loudly as I recognised the girl, her large, fathomless eyes making it quite impossible for me not to do so. Her family had been well acquainted with mine before the war, and she had just begun her first year at Hogwarts when the Battle had given the Dark Lord the power he so desperately craved. She shook her pale hair out of her eyes as she stepped to the front of the stage, a Slytherin smirk plastered to her lips as the crowd clapped wildly, finding reason for celebration in this intimidating girl.

"I am Indigo Stormwell, aged fifteen, and I will be the Victor of these First Hunger Games," she announced, her voice filled with more conviction than her male counterpart, who was appraising her unabashedly with hungry eyes. The sponsor raised an eyebrow at Indigo before stepping forward, gesturing with a stray hand at the two Tributes.

"District Two. Your Tributes," she said grandly, her eyes flashing as the crowd screamed in approval, the Peacekeepers guarding the stage carefully as the Tributes made their way into the Justice Building.

"She seemed quite confident," I commented, Snow nodding eagerly by my side. Maddox merely scrutinised my face closely, knowing that I had deeper feelings on the subject.

"He is bound to die early though, poor soul," Snow shook his head, emitting a deep sigh, as though the loss of the boy hurt him personally. I growled under my breath and gestured to the luminous screen, that now bore the emblem of District 3.

The sponsor for this District was male, his long hair tied into a plait behind his back. His features were distinguished, and his appearance fairly normal, save for his neon green eyes. As District 3 was not considered a major asset, their square was fairly simple, although the floor was clearly made up of a shiny metal, and their Citizens were fairly scrawny. However, District 3 was home to some of the brightest technological minds of the time, and the children had been mostly torn from their families for their prodigal minds. Without speaking, he reached into the orb with pink papers and drew a slip from the middle, unfolding it from its lighting shape.

He cleared his throat to announce a name when a tall girl from the fourth row squeaked happily, running happily to the stage. She was willowy, her eyes a calm blue, with flowing gold locks that portrayed her happiness at being chosen to die.

"Hi guys! I'm Sparkle Sue, and I'm fifteen!" she introduced brightly, waving to the pacified crowd before her. "I guess this means I volunteer," she added, blushing slightly as the crowd clapped sombrely under threat of punishment. The sponsor smiled thinly, shaking her hand politely before stepping to the second orb and drawing a name blindly from the pile and swallowed heavily before announcing the victim.

"Marquis Ross?" he called softly, his chartreuse-coloured eyes sweeping warmly over the crowd as a boy staggered out of line, shaking slightly as he stepped up to the platform. The camera picked up the noises of his family crying in the background, and he smiled nervously, before climbing the stairs with shaky legs. He was fairly underfed, with no muscle to speak of, and his features suggested he had not yet quite hit puberty, as they were fairly feminine. But many objections were raised from the crowd as he was escorted ahead, indicating that he was a beloved member of their group.

"My name is Marquis Ross, and I am fourteen years old," he whispered into the microphone, his eyes tearing up as the sponsor shook his hand firmly, before the ditzy girl Tribute rushed forward, pulling Marquis into a tight hug.

"How sweet," Snow commented, snorting slightly as he shook some powdered sugar onto the floor. "The boy is weak, he won't make it very far."

My blood boiled, and my fists clenched as I glanced on the face of the teary boy, who was now being pushed into the Justice Building by the rough hands of the Peacekeepers.

"District Four," Maddox whispered, and I glanced up, unclenching my fists instinctually at the sound of his voice. The emblem of our fishing District shone upon the screen, and I relaxed, knowing the Tributes from this wealthy District would be as eager as the first two pairs.

The iron symbol dissolved, the image of the District's centre appearing. Out of all the Districts, the Fourth had been least affected by modernisation, its streets still made of cobblestones and the buildings maintaining their sea-worn appearance. The only visible change was the clock below the feet of the children, which rang ominously to signify the beginning of the Reaping, causing them to grab each other for dear life. Cornelius Zaid, the only sponsor I knew personally, stepped forward, a wicked smile upon his face as the Mayor finished his introduction. His appearance nearly made me laugh out loud, as his hair had been woven into sherbet-coloured dreads behind his head, and he had purchased those diamond implants everyone was scrambling to get. As his skin was dark, they looked positively ridiculous, but his menacing eyes cut any urge to laugh from my mouth.

"Ladies first," he breathed ominously, his mouth stuck into a permanent smile as his hand darted forward, picking a slip from the bottom of the bowl. He took his time relishing the suspense as he unfolded the paper, raising it into the air as he announced the name upon it.

"Beatrice Donovan!" he told the crowd triumphantly, and a girl turned back to look in fear at a man standing towards the front of the crowd. He nodded almost imperceptibly and she stepped up silently, moving with a silent grace onto the elevated ground, her head elevated.

A sudden cough from the back of the line disrupted the procession, and a red-haired girl rushed forward, her hands waving desperately as she attempted to catch her breath. She had clearly been very pretty once, but her skin was presently littered with nodules and angry red marks that made many people shy from her as she rushed forward.

Cornelius smiled predatorily, his mouth curling into a grin as his eyes lingered upon the little girl. "I think we may have a volunteer on our hands," he laughed brightly, causing the girl on the stairs to turn in panic toward the girl. Her eyes widened substantially, and the cameras turned to her as she slowly realised what was happening to her.

"V-Volunteer," she finally gasped, and the Tribute's eyes narrowed as her eyes blazed, giving her the extra force to climb those final steps with defiance and stand in front of Cornelius, blocking his access to the microphone.

She turned her body to the crowd and gave them a winning smile, although her eyes were changing colour constantly. They were mesmerising, transitioning from a deep grey to a light blue-green within seconds as her dark curls bounced around her head. Although she was not the most beautiful of the Tributes we had seen, her subtle beauty drew me to her, and I found myself losing track of Snow's incessant movements beside me. She was not skinny, yet not overweight either, the fat she had clinging to her figure and rounding her out in contrast to the strikingly skinny people of the Capitol. The dress she wore accentuated her figure nicely, the embroidered dragon curling around her abdomen and breathing a dark line of fire across her bust. She was clearly of the female gender, but her body showed signs of musculature and frequent use, the muscles in her calves outlined below her mildly blemished skin. It was tanned lightly, a darker olive that showed obscure origins, and her face was virtually free of makeup.

"I accept my Reaping with gracious humility. It gives me great joy to know that I shall be able to bring honour to my family, and to this wonderful District. My name is Beatrice Donovan, and I am sixteen years old," she declared grandly, although she was not met with rousing applause. Instead, the audience looked at her with eyes full of horror and disbelief, refusing to clap for this girl who had been chosen for death. She smiled arrogantly at the camera and turned on her heel, her dark hair shining in the light as she clasped her hands behind her back, staring defiantly at the camera.

_Who was this young woman? Why did her every move seem so enigmatic?_

"Now, for the Gentleman," Cornelius spat, glaring at the girl and crossing the stage to the other orb, grabbing a note viciously from the top of the pile.

"Seb-" he began, only to be cut out by a voice emanating from the back of the crowd.

"I volunteer," the young boy said, his hair covering his eyes as he climbed the stairs, sending obvious glares at the Peacekeepers as he walked by. _Did District Four just naturally produce people who wanted to die rebels?_

"What an eager young lad! Tell us, my boy, what is your name?" Cornelius grinned triumphantly, his passion sparked by the young volunteer. The boy stepped to the microphone, his eyes staring unwaveringly into the camera as Cornelius' hand clenched his shoulder tightly.

"Toshka Vlast. I'm twelve. Now, please remove your hand from my shoulder if you value it in any manner," he commented drily, looking at Cornelius with spite evident in his dark eyes. The sponsor smiled threateningly in response, his thin lips pressed together tightly in a gesture of presumed civility.

In a sign of defiance, the two joined hands and raised them into the air, unseparated by the hands of the Capitol, to which they were greeted with rounds of unparalleled applause.

The tape cut there, and continued rolling, the emblem of District Five shining on the screen. To my left, Maddox was smiling knowingly, while, on my right, Snow's lips were clenched tightly, and his jaw set in anger. The gears were quite visibly turning in his hand and I cleared my throat, pressing another button on the console, allowing a tray of food to appear within seconds. Fruit, delicacies, pastries appeared in front of us, and Snow's eyes lightened in glee as he glanced upon the meal.

"You truly know how to entertain, Fawkes," he chuckled, lunging for the chocolates closest to him. Smirking slightly, my thoughts caught up in the image of the girl, I reached for a green apple and bit into it, allowing the tart taste to assault my senses.

District Five faired pretty well on the large scope of things, as they were responsible for supplying power to all other Districts. In honour of that role, the town square's floor was made out of glass, a bright electric current running visibly underneath. The citizens were thus bathed in a sea of blue-white light, causing their already sickly skin to practically glow.

The sponsor stepped forward, clearly dressed in the spirit of the District she had been assigned. Her hair was a bright blue, and cut into short style that my mother had referred to as bob. Her dress matched the hair, with the fabric clinging close to her body, save for the pointy shoulders that rose from her body. As she turned to wave at the audience, I spotted a pair of golden lighting earrings adorning her ears.

Smiling brightly, she shook the mayor's hand and proceeded to the girls' orb, her painted nails snatching a random card, as her free hand covered her eyes dramatically.

"Would," she glanced at the card, "Artemis Legatis please come to the stage?" she asked politely, as a small girl in the very back burst into tears and stumbled out of line. A pair of Peacekeepers stepped forward, prepared to drag her onto the stage themselves. Suddenly, a girl stepped between them, her arms outstretched and her face determined.

"Stop! I volunteer!" she shrieked, her eyes turned towards the stage. Nodding subtly, the sponsor gestured for the Peacekeepers to let her proceed. Adjusting her black, fairy-cut dress, she stepped forward, her hair falling messily across one shoulder. Her eyes shone a bright blue, similar to that of her sponsor's hair, and her figure was fairly petite, with creamy skin and pink lips.

"My name is Arianna Makenzie Whiteraven, and I am thirteen," she spoke into the microphone, as though she couldn't believe the events that had just unfolded. She looked at least fifteen, however, as her body seemed too developed for her age. In response to the timid response she received from the crowds, she smiled reassuringly, and they applauded louder, causing her to grin widely and take several steps back to allow the proceedings to continue. She was quite pretty, the dress revealing skin as the styled layers gave way to patches of skin.

The sponsor smiled kindly at the slightly shaking girl and crossed the elevated ground, bending over slightly to pick a scrap of paper from the remaining bowl.

"Daivat Sheemo, would you please come up?" she inquired, her pale blue eyes roaming over the group of males standing in front of her. The camera focused on a tall boy in the front row, who seemed slightly stunned that his name would dare to be called. Glancing about, he threw back his hair and adjusted his sleeves, smirking evilly as he climbed onto the stage, ignoring the creation of stairs.

"I'm Daivat Sheemo, and I am eighteen," he winked conspiratorially at the cameras and raised his hands into the air, silently demanding for applause. The response was overwhelming, girls capping wildly and calling out to him desperately. His partner, however, seemed less inclined to lose her head, and she merely looked at him silently, a look of disgust evident on her face.

Taking a final bite of my apple, I tossed it into the garbage bin, smirking as it landed solidly inside the container. My Quidditch skills had not failed me yet.

Snow's enthusiasm wound down as the liquor inside of the chocolates got to his head, and he allowed the presentation to continue without word.

The next District was responsible for transportation, and it was considered among the poorest groups of people in Panem. The children were well-muscled due to the hard labour they had endured, but their faces were hollow with malnourishment. To escape the harsh reality we had all been faced with, the adults of District Six had greatly taken to a drug called Morphling, the negative effects of which were apparent in their dead eyes and anxious behaviour. They did not know that their pain had been planned, and that the Morphling had been the spawn of a Capitol project. Guinea pigs, the lot of them.

I paid little attention to the sponsor, a bland elderly man, as my mind drifted back to the look on Beatrice Donovan's face. Surely the girl who had volunteered in her place had not been her sister, as they did not resemble each other in any manner. Furthermore, I couldn't understand the profound silence of the District as she made her proclamation. District Four was comprised of wealthy individuals, and the girl did not come from any of the most influential families. Why was she so important?

Maddox nudged me slightly as a card was pulled from the blue bowl, and unfolded with shaky hands.

"Oscar Nguyen?" the man stammered, looking at the Peacekeepers expectantly. A well-built boy ran his hand through his spiky hair and stomped to the stage, his tanned face sweaty and dirtied with black marks. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rolled his narrowed eyes before stepping to the microphone.

"Oscar Nguyen. Seventeen," he said bluntly, gesturing with his middle finger to the camera, as he sat himself upon a chair in the back of the stage. I laughed briefly at his candour, causing Maddox to give me a warning look, although allowing himself a small smile.

The elderly sponsor was clearly taken aback by this rude boy's behaviour and grabbed another slip from the blue pile blindly, reading it out with surprising swiftness.

"Brandon Longson," he announced, before looking at the paper in a panicked matter, realising his error. Once a Tribute's name was spoken at the Reaping, their selection was final, unless a Volunteer stepped in their place.

The boy coughed violently and staggered forward, his face red from the strain it caused him to do so.

"Wait, I volunteer!" a feminine voice yelled, running ahead to the stage. She shot the boy a frenzied look as the old man smiled happily, gesturing for her to introduce herself to the crowd. The boy looked at her in horror, and struggled against the Peacekeepers' grip, his voice ringing despite its feeble timbre.

"Akira!" he yelled, the Peacekeepers dragging him out of the square. "No, you can't do this!" The girl smiled sadly and mouthed her goodbye to him, before adjusting her light green dress and looking out tearily to the crowd.

"I am Akira Longson, and I am sixteen," she breathed into the microphone, her hands shaking as she stepped back to regain her composure.

As the camera faded, I caught the screams of the young boy, who was undoubtedly being punished for his disruptions, and the bile rose to my throat.

"He's got some gall, disrespecting the Capitol like that! No doubt, he'll pay dearly when the time comes," Snow spat bitterly, his pale skin blotching as he awoke from his alcohol-induced stupor. "But the girl shows promise."

The seventh District was comprised of lumber production, a material that had lost significant popularity among the rich families of the Capitol. It seemed as though everything in the centre was made out of wood, ranging from a rich expensive wood decking the Justice Building, to a worn wooden floor upon which the children now stood. Similar to the second District, the children were tall and built bulkily, their hands calloused from spending their days felling and hauling large chunks of wood. The sponsor stood happily upon the stage, her outfit a stark contrast to the citizens that surrounded her. Her lips were a raven that matched her inky hair, which had shaped so faultlessly it looked as though it were made of plastic. Her dress revealed too much skin for my taste, made out of silk and lace in interchangeable patterns.

Grinning playfully at the crowd, she used her black talons to pull a card from the girls' wooden box, batting her long eyelashes as her eyes settled upon the camera.

"Katerina Morgenstern?" she smiled expectantly, as the cameras focused upon a towering girl in the front row. Her face was blank, her eyes flitting abut nervously before the girl forced a smile on her face and proceeded to the stairs slowly. Her appearance would certainly make her a favourite among the Capitol: lanky and tall, with golden-brown locks, eyes the colour of a lime and naturally sun-kissed skin.

"It's pronounced Cat-eye-reen-ah, actually," the girl corrected stubbornly, her eyes appraising the sponsor silently. Clearly, she was not impressed. The sponsor merely continued smiling, her lips parting to reveal the ivory teeth beneath.

"Any volunteers?" the woman asked, only to be greeted by an onslaught of volunteers. The girl looked slightly taken aback, but stepped forward, seizing the stage from the gothic woman.

"I accept my position as Tribute. There will be no need for volunteers," she assured the crowd, earning her a knowing smile from the onyx-clothed woman. Inclining her head, the woman proceeded to the left of the stage, seizing a card more forcefully from the larger pile of male victims.

"Conner Morris," she stated sharply, her tongue hissing out the last syllable of his name. In the middle of the crowd, a boy with vividly scarlet hair stumbled forward in shock. The boy collected himself quickly though, his face turning into a mask as he climbed the stairs, shooting meaningful looks at the other red-haired boys of the crowd. My memories drifted back to a family I had loathed, one that I had nearly obliterated during the War. Only one member of the infamously ginger family was still living, having opted out of an Aetherean Game to mentor a pair of Tributes in this perdition I was executing. Although they had been promised a life of fame and fortune, the Victors of the Aetherean Games had been shipped out to Panem, forced to teach these children to kill without remorse.

He walked calmly upon the stage, hatred evident in his deep green eyes as he nodded dismissively to his female counterpart. The clapping was fairly dim, although the redheads clapped with the stoic determination of a Roman army.

As the screen dimmed again, scenes from the War flashed behind my eyes, and I clenched the fabric of the couch tightly, determined not to let Snow see my weakness. _Her_ face flitted into my mind, and I found myself oddly calm, as though nothing had mattered before I saw her. Sighing deeply, I shook myself out of the blissful reverie, and seized a truffle from the table, allowing it to melt in my mouth.

Maddox cleared his throat subtly, indicating the commencement of the following Reaping. District Eight was among the poorest I ruled over, being only in charge of textile production. Its inhabitants were either scrawny and grey-skinned from spending too much time indoors, breathing the fumes of the factory, or bulkily built with darker skin, developed from many hours picking cotton in the fields. A man dressed in black, whose eyes were covered by sunglasses, stood upon the stage, his hands clasped stubbornly in front of him. Looking over the crowd, he walked robotically to the right orb filled with rose-coloured slips and drew a curled piece of paper at random.

"Iris Dean," he declared, seemingly without having looked at the paper. Snow swallowed audibly beside me, covering it up with a predatory smile as a girl began weeping audibly in the second row, her head shaking from side to side vigorously. She only began moving as a Peacekeeper neared her, gripping her arm tightly and walking her to the stage. The sponsor looked straight ahead, his focus hidden by the glasses covering his face. Finally, she managed to climb the stairs with great support from the railing, the tear tracks glinting in the light. Her figure was quite tiny, and her hunched shoulders revealed an intense vulnerability not portrayed by her sharp eyes and dark hair.

"Age?" the man demanded, and she nodded violently, glancing at the Peacekeepers in fear.

"S-s-sev-v-en-t-teen," she stuttered, blushing furiously as she was met by some laughter from the audience. Slowly, however, the applause grew and she beamed, moving to the side of the stage to compose herself.

Not wasting any time, the man crossed the stage and shook back the sleeve of his jacket to choose his next victim.

"I volunteer," a boy started from the crowd, smirking triumphantly as he climbed the stairs. "I'm Mathew Jameson, and I'm sixteen," he grinned, bowing deeply to the crowd. His eyes were a bright silver as he glanced around, pleased with the reaction he had received. I rolled my own eyes at his behaviour, feeling sick to my stomach as I realised how alike the boy and my former self were. No wonder I had possessed so many enemies.

The next District presented a stark contrast with the previous, as their town square was composed of nothing but the Justice Building seated in a field of yellow grass. Being in charge of grain, the citizens wasted no space for buildings, save for the large granaries that lined the background. Their sponsor was introducing himself exuberantly, sending bright smiles whenever he finished a sentence. His head was devoid of hair, a fact for which he compensated with a trimmed triangle of dark hair below his lower lip. Like the previous sponsor, he was wearing glasses, although his were held in round wireframes and with blue lenses that did nothing to distract from his diamond earrings. Despite the obvious heat in the District, he was dressed in a purple velvet suit with a gold inlay outlining the collars.

He made a great show of picking a name from the pink barrel, before settling on one and raising it into the air with a glittering smile.

"Sadilito Rivers, please step forward," he boomed, waving a small girl forward eagerly. She gazed at him with wide, richly dark eyes, as she stepped forward tentatively, arranging her dress nervously as she did so. Her skin was a creamy brown, and she looked to be the picture of youth as the sponsor rushed forward to lower the microphone to her stature.

"How old are you, dearie?" he asked brightly, his eyes on the camera as he held the microphone to her.

"Thirteen," she said hopefully, her voice ringing out across the field like wind chimes. He nodded appreciatively and bounded over to the remaining barrel, the camera glued to his permanently smiling face like a moth on a light.

"Come on up, Damien Secrena!" he called cheerfully, his glasses glinting in the light as he searched the crowd eagerly. "Don't be shy!"

Finally a boy emerged, his face covered by a curtain of silky dark hair. He was built surprisingly well, lean and athletic, probably from hauling bushels of grain across the fields. He stepped rather nervously on the stage, holding on to the railing until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm fifteen," he told the sponsor briefly, not allowing the man to make a show of him as he retreated mutely to the back of the stage. His face showed a deep intelligence and cunning, as though his preliminary shock had faded to reveal a mind that was trying to predict every horror that the Arena would convey.

"A rather pathetic pair, if you ask me," Snow sneered, dusting some dust off the lapel of his jacket and pulling out a translucent device that I identified as the latest in portable phone technology. I had never known Muggles were so innovative until I had been forced to live among them. Studying their technology and history had become a fervent hobby of mine, one that Maddox thoroughly encouraged, having studied history himself all of his life.

Instead of the yellow grass that covered all surfaces of the previous District, District Ten boasted of waving green meadows and the incessant smell of manure, as they were in charge of livestock. Their town centre consisted of the towering Justice Building, and little else save for several ranch houses that sported coats of peeling paint.

In contrast to the plaid-clad ranchers around, the sponsor was wearing a tight leather body suit that bunched up around her shoulder and left hip into a cubic design. A majority of her face was obscured by a mask bearing a multitude of reflective squares that made the light jut out sharply in a rainbow aura around her tightly curled, ice blonde locks. Her leather-gloved hands reached into the pink orb, and she smacked her painted lips together as she approached the front of the stage.

"Crisis Secliss," she enunciated sharply, her lips pursed as she turned her head expectantly towards the row of girls at her left. After several deafening seconds, a figure began moving in the front of the row, walking calmly to the stage in total silence. She was tall, with a delicate complexion that any ancient royalty would have killed to possess. Like a majority of population, she seemed to not be the keeper of enormous physical strength, rather looking like she'd be able to twist out of a tough situation instead of fighting through it. Her lips were drawn down in an expression of distaste as she ascended, her thick lashes obstructing her eyes.

She walked smoothly toward the microphone, her long arms crossed defiantly in front of her, her vividly auburn hair falling across her shoulders. "My name is Crisis, and I'm eighteen," she stated coldly, although her eyes revealed she was more anxious than she revealed. She flipped her hair passively, retreating from the intense eyes of the camera. Truly, were it not for her clear defiance, she would not be seen as a threat, as her clothes were oversized and ratty, and her feet bare to the ground.

"Kai Delloom," the sponsor's voice rang, a piece of indigo paper already clutched between her thin fingers. The sound of crying was caught on camera and they focused in on a boy towards the back of the crowd, with skin so pale it looked white and a head of silver to boot. He staggered to the stage, falling to his feet as he reached the stairs. The female Tribute sent him a look of worry, but the Peacekeepers deposited him mindlessly on the stage, nodding briskly to the sponsor, who shook her head in disgust at the figure at her feet.

"He's fourteen," the girl told her sharply, grasping the boy in her arms and wrenching him to his feet, supporting him dismissively as he wept in her arms. Her face was innocent, not yet worn with age, but her eyes were brimmed with horrors unseen to everyone but her.

"Good Lord, they act as though the idea of fighting for glory were abysmal! Such plebeians," Snow spat, rolling his eyes and sniffing in disgust. His hand reached for the thin stem of a crystalline glass that bore Irish Coffee and sipped it delicately, smacking his lips in delight as he did so.

The beating of drums drew my attention to the screen, as Cosimo's masqueraded face faded into the background of the eleventh District, responsible for agriculture. As a result, it had become one of the largest Districts, spanning countless acres of farmland and orchards that bore the fruit of the people's labour. The centre was crowded with people, and guarded fiercely by sanguine-dressed Peacekeepers, under whose glare the crowd cowered in fear. Children lined obediently into their assigned rows, their dark and reddened skin glowing in the sun, with the exception of few who had retained their pallid hues. The builds ranged from stocky to scrawny, as most citizens had been thrown into this District because they did not fit into any other. _I wonder why Beatrice belonged in District 4. _

"Let's not waste any time, shall we?" the sponsor, a short man sporting a red hat and too-small pants held up by suspenders, said, smiling bashfully at the cloud. Clearing his throat, he made to the right of the stage, glancing apprehensively at the crowd, as though in expectation of something.

"I volunteer as Tribute!" a girl yelled, amid gasps from several members of the audience. Her dark eyes roamed about, as though searching for someone who was following her, and smirked, sauntering up to the stage with an intensely determined face. She was dressed in a dark suit and tie, her dark hair held up into a tail on her head. As she turned to the camera, I held back a rush of vomit as I recognised her face. The torture and murder of Martha Moon rushed back to me, amid the mad cackles of a family member I now refused to acknowledge, much to her chagrin. Maddox grasped my fisted hand tightly as the cries and screams accosted me, blanching my face even further. Finally, they dissipated, and I shot a thin-lipped smile at Maddox, who nodded in recognition.

"My name is Zy-," the girl began, before her eyes darkened further, and she cleared her throat. "Zita Moon, and I am seventeen years of age." Stuffing her hands in the jacket's pockets, she smiled triumphantly at the cameras and retreated to the rear of the stage.

"Very well. If I may continue?" the sponsor eyed the boys and nodded, adjusting his hat upon his head as he dismissively picked a name from the pile.

"Kobus Malan," he smiled, looking over at the first row of boys, where the farthest had frozen, his hands clenched into fists beside him. Not revealing any emotion, he climbed the stairs and glanced towards Zita, grinning smugly as he did so. The cameras focused upon her expression and I heard Maddox let out a sharp gust of air: her eyes were now a light green, and she bore a look of utmost terror. It was as though she had become an entirely different person within the span of several minutes.

"Hello, all. You already know my name, so I guess all I need to tell you is that I'm eighteen," the guy said cockily, his soft blue eyes sparkling as the blonde corkscrew curls on his head bounced with every slight movement. Wrapping his lanky arm around the slightly shaking female, he waved to the cameras, blowing kisses to the nearly silent female audience.

"Quite the odd one, isn't she, Fawkes?" Snow commented, an ominous smile lining his lips. He did not seem taken aback by the boy's behaviour whatsoever, or the mercurial emotions of the girl.

A sea of grey overtook the screen, in a from I recognised as District Twelve, where citizens wasted their days toiling in coal mines. Coal was sparse as an energy source, but it was used for the primeval heating systems in the poorer Districts, as well as in the material factories in District Eight. Similarly, their skin was pallid and olive-coloured from the sulphur, some to the extent of looking yellow under the clouds. In comparison, the sponsor looked like a joke, her bubblegum pink hair falling to her shoulders, where the straps of her yellow dress met. At her hips, the dress bubbled out, turning into a translucent material with yellow interwoven. Her figure was an hourglass taken to the extreme, and I was quite sure she wore a corset under her skimpy garb.

She waved merrily to the crowd, the bracelets upon her hand banging together loudly in the silence of the crowd. Bouncing over to the lavender pile, she drew one, chewing on her over-glossed lip in what she assumed was an adorable manner.

"Eva Kirk," she enunciated, her voice accenting the name in odd places, and her tongue sharply iterating the consonants. A girl in the back screamed, and the cameras focused upon a tiny girl in the back wearing pale yellow dress stained with charcoal dust and a bandana wrapped around her head. Behind her, a Peacekeeper stepped forward, pushing her roughly so she would proceed to the stage. She nearly fell, only to be stopped by the hand of an older girl, who helped her up before looking forward emotionlessly. Shaking like a leaf in the wind, the girl walked forward, her lips emitting small squeaks of panic and her eyes darting about, looking for an exit.

"Your age?" the lady asked, and the girl glanced at her, shocked that anyone had spoken to her.

"Twelve," she mumbled, her voice cracking at the end as she glanced to the back of the crowd, where her family was undoubtedly weeping for the loss of this sweet child.

"On to the boys," the sponsor bounced over to the opposite pile, bending over suggestively and glancing at the pile in thought.

Suddenly, the little girl bounded forward toward her family, screeching unintelligible words as she was seized into the arms of the Peacekeepers, who dragged her back onto the stage, continuously kicking and crying.

The sponsor clicked her tongue reprehensibly as the Peacekeepers held the girl tightly on the stage, finally deciding upon a paper at the corner of the pile.

"Iain Trescott," she snapped, rolling her eyes as she threw the slip over her shoulder. Slowly, a boy stepped forward, his face struggling between calm and panic. His eyes were a coal black, as was his shaggy hair that fell into his eyes. As the sponsor stepped to him, he drew himself up to the microphone, his face set in stone.

"Iain Trescott. I'm sixteen," he told the audience steadily, although his eyes revealed the true panic inside. Placing her bejewelled hands on her hips, the sponsor waved for them to continue into the Justice Building, not even bothering to let the crowd honour their Tributes.

"That girl is dead. She won't make it a day," Snow sipped his coffee and checked his watch, clearly pressed for time. He noticed my glance and shrugged, waving his hand about as though it bore some ancient meaning.

The final District was fairly nondescript in appearance, the walls painted a bland white. As they produced nuclear energy and weapons, most building were connected by lead-lined tunnels that had recently been built to house the inhabitants. Nevertheless, radiation continued to pass through the walls, creating an aesthetically interesting group of inhabitants. They shared the common characteristic of fair skin, but eyes and hair ranged from extreme colours that would ordinarily be achieved only by dyeing.

The sponsor stood upon the stage, a sombre look upon his face as he glanced around. His arms were covered in tattoos, as he wore a simple shirt and vest that left little to the imagination. Even the female mayor was glancing at him appreciatively, only causing him to move his left hand slightly, revealing a band around his ring finger. Unlike most Capitol men, his face was sparsely covered with hair, that he scratched absentmindedly while walking over to the sapphire bowl of papers. Smiling sadly, he pulled a slip and unfolded it, looking out upon the male audience.

"Deiniol Vendetta," he said softly, glancing at a jet-black haired boy in the last row, who nodded to himself and walked forward, not looking up from his shoes.

"No! No!" a girl yelled, rushing up from the middle of the crowd, her neon-red hair flying in a streak behind her. "Stop! I'll volunteer!"

The sponsor nodded grimly, and gestured for her to proceed up the stairs. The boy glanced at her, terror flooding his eyes as he remained rooted to the spot. Her hazel eyes widened to an inhuman size as her scarily thin frame climbed the stairs, her hands shaking almost imperceptibly. She, unlike the other girls, was wearing sneakers and pants, with a white shirt rolled up to her elbows.

"Please state your name and age for the record," the sponsor asked her, and she shook herself out of a reverie and walked silently to the microphone. She looked like a child of natural cheer, her pretty features speaking of laughter, although her eyes said otherwise.

"Seraphina Vendetta. Sixteen," she muttered, allowing herself a small smile as she recused herself, stepping to the side of the stage. The man swallowed thickly and clenched his jaw as he drew another name from the pile of males.

"Derek Foxx," he iterated morosely, his eyes rising from the paper to the crowd in front of him. A boy with icy nearly-white hair stepped forward, his hands clenched for moral support behind him. He looked as though this was a daily occurrence, and his clothes, while dressy, were scuffed from some previous encounter.

"I'm fourteen," he told the crowd bluntly, as though his age made no difference to his fate. Nodding at the female tribute, he settled himself in the opposite corner, glancing expectantly at the sponsor. Clenching his fist, the man raised three fingers of his right hand and pressed them to his lips, a gesture moving without words. Slowly, the crowd mimicked him, until all hands were raised into the air in salute.

The footage cut off abruptly, switching back to reveal Cosimo's irritating face as he commented cheerfully on the chosen Tributes and the events to come, much to the delight of the audience.

"They truly are an impressive group," Snow nodded, rising to his feet as the lights lit up the room once again. "I imagine these shall create a riveting show indeed." He chuckled merrily and patted his stomach, glancing at the willowy figure of my caretaker. "What do you think, Maddox?"

The formerly mentioned man straightened from the couch and arranged his jacket absentmindedly, clearly preoccupied by the thoughts in his head

"I believe that all people have secrets, Snow. These children...their souls are darkened by events we could not foresee. That shall make them volatile, but it makes them human. Thus, I don't think it is likely they would take kindly to killing their comrades, their equals," Maddox uttered silently, his eyes flashing with an anger I had never anticipated. Snow shot him a tight-lipped smile, his eyes narrowed sharply.

"Perhaps you should keep your servants on a tighter leash, Drakonis. They need to learn respect," he glanced at me and I drew myself to my full height, the faces of the victims flying behind my eyes before focusing, once more, upon the defiant girl from District Four.

"Maddox is allowed his opinion, and it is not my fault if you asked for it. When you are in my abode, however, I expect you to treat everyone with the utmost respect and courtesy. As for my opinion, I think that these children are fighters, and that they shall not die in vain. The country should prepare themselves for heartbreak and inspiration in the face of these young warriors," I voiced, my voice dripping with venom. Snow drew his watch from his pocket in response, and sighing deeply.

"As illuminating as this experience was, I must continue with my plans. I bid you farewell, and thank you for your hospitality," he inclined his head and turned on his heel, exiting the room swiftly. As he left, I exhaled sharply and grinned broadly at Maddox, who remained as impassive as usual, his eyes glinting with subtle humour.

"You are incorrigible, sir, if I may be so bold," Maddox cleared his throat and I laughed loudly at the expression on his face. "Perhaps it would be best if I were to remind you that the girl to which you have taken such a liking will face the horrors that man chooses to inflict upon her," he stated sagely, shaking his head dubiously. "He does not take kindly to defiance."

I stopped in my tracks and glanced at him angrily, and he drew back, scared by the intensity of my glare. I knew that my eyes had darkened to a near-black, and that the shadows cast over my face would look even more intimidating.

"I do not know what you are talking about, Maddox. Her appearance was merely intriguing, that is all," I responded briskly, my voice lacking the conviction I had intended for it to have. Shrugging slightly, Maddox stepped forward and placed his hand on my shoulder, leaning towards me until his lips neared my ear.

"A wise man once said, 'We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.' After all, who ever loved that loved not at first sight?" he whispered, a smile gracing his face as he bowed slightly, leaving me to my thoughts.

Sighing deeply, I seized a thick volume from the shelf and strode out into the gardens: a small expanse of land that served as my oasis. There, next to the bubbling creek and below the fragrant branches of the apple trees, I could think unabashedly, without worrying about the consequences that thus would arise.

I opened the book with care and began reading, my eyes skimming the text rapidly. Inevitably, my thoughts turned once again to her, and I shut the book sharply, running an exasperated hand through my hair.

What was this obsession I was developing with this stranger? I did not even know her, and yet I could not cease to think of her. And, even if I did, her eyes had revealed the clear disgust she bore towards me, towards the country I had helped to forge. To her, I was a monster, just as I was to myself.

My eyes fell upon the book, which had fallen to reveal a random page, and, as though by some greater power, began reading a sentence at the middle of the page: "Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fires."

Looking up, I laughed slightly at the irony and shook my head at my own foolish behaviour. I was merely lonely, deprived from human contact for too long.

"Really?" I mumbled at the sky, chuckling darkly when I received no response. I had never been one to believe in God, and yet my fixations seemed too perfect, too ethereal to be of earth. "Well, I guess I'll just have to wait and see, won't I?" I spoke, revelling in the silence that engulfed me.

Suddenly, something solid hit me on the head, and I cursed, looking upon the ground for the offending object. A perfect, green apple rolled to my feet, and a brilliant idea formed in my head, bringing a smirk to my lips.

"Now you're just showing off. But, heck, it worked for Newton," I commented, dunking the apple into the water before taking a bite. "Bloody delicious idea, by the way."

Taking the book into my hands once again, I began reading anew, a small flame of hope reignited in my heart as the gears rotated in my head.

**A/N: So, what did you guys think? That last bit just jumped into my head, but I quite like it. That quote President Drakonis read originates from a French writer named Francois de la Rochefoucald, and Maddox' earlier quote was said by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, surprisingly enough. In any case, please leave me a review, whether it results in a hug or a burn, with what you think, you know that little bar below you is begging for it. And please mention your thoughts on the President, and his identity. Reviewers get virtual apples, for Newton. Thank you so much!**


	3. Goodbye

**A/N: Hello, there. After way too much delay, I finally finish the highly anticipated third chapter of this. Truly, I blame myself, and my obsessive compulsion for writing whole books for chapters, for the time difference. I'm awful, I know it. In fact, I often complain about it. Okay, so I do need to clarify something. Many of you probably noticed that there's a lot of focus on Trix, the girl from District 4. That's because she is, indeed, my own character, and that's why nearly everything will be from her point of view. Those of you who review consistently, however, I can assure you that, thus, your Tributes will receive a spotlight in the Games. I reward loyalty quite generously. And no, Trix won't win. That's all I'm saying for now. So, I have currently about 3 guesses that are correct in regards to the President's identity. Which is discouraging, considering I was hoping my amazing stealth would win over. Alas, my readers are too smart. Huge thanks to SkyeElf, AverytheElf, InTheDarknessWithNoLight and Batmarcus for reviewing. This chapter is dedicated to Woodelf. You know who you are, and I love you!**

**Suggested Soundtrack: Waiting for the End by Linkin Park, and 45 by Shinedown. **

Trix's POV

My hands shook slightly as the Peacekeepers walked Toshka and I through the Justice Building. Had I been there under different circumstances, I would have been at awe with the intricate architecture it housed. The walls were lined with old paintings, lit only by the light streaming in from the octagonal skylight above us. Formerly, this building had served as the City Hall, retaining the history of the city it had served.

My eyes wandered over to the figure of my fellow Tribute, and I couldn't help but wonder what he had been thinking, volunteering for a death sentence. He was about a head shorter than me, with a stocky, but not muscular build. His ankles bent inward and I couldn't help but smile at his child-like posture. Unlike myself, however, he seemed completely at ease with the situation at hand, his hands tucked into the pockets of his too-small shorts.

We continued walking in utter silence, up stairs and through doorways and rooms that seemed to serve little to no purpose. They were all decorated sumptuously: with fluffy rugs and expensive couches that could keep my patients alive for months on end. Even the tables seemed to be carved out of highly expensive wood, a rich black that faded into a light beige in areas. Yet, none of them bore any signs of life, being bare with no papers or pens to speak of. My desk was permanently littered with the books I had been able to salvage, and the papers that bore my patient notes.

Finally, the Peacekeepers stopped, and I felt one of them place their hand on my shoulder, pushing me toward the door on the right. Shaking him off, I walked forward and opened the door, entering the chamber and closing the door behind me. The room oversaw the Marketplace and I sat myself on the windowsill, drawing my arms around my legs and letting my face rest against my bare, slightly rough skin of my knees. My mother had always joked that she must have been descended from royalty, as her knees remained smooth and her ankles slender. On the other hand, I had taken after my father, with rough knees that never smoothed and thicker ankles I usually hid behind long pants.

My mind was running at full speed, trying to formulate a plan, a strategy that could save those I cared for. As I thought of Abby, I let out a strangled sob, and wiped my eyes dismissively, hoping the room did not contain any cameras to catch my weakness. Sniffing slightly, I gave up on trying to think ahead, knowing it would be hopeless. I had not been gifted with anticipation like my mother had, so I had made no plans in case of my possibly indefinite disappearance. _It will be forever,_ a voice inside my head nagged and I clenched my jaw, letting my tears roll down my cheeks in silence. How was I supposed to survive a Game designed to kill?

Suddenly, the door opened and my head snapped up instinctively, in time to see Ed running at full speed towards me, his brown hair sticking up in the back as always. Without speaking, he wrapped me in a tight hug, his arms forming a vice grip around my waist.

"Why?" he whispered, looking at me with teary eyes so unlike my own. His were a stoic green-grey, with a splash of yellow near the irises, framed by long lashes that shone gold in the sunlight.

"I don't know, Ed," I replied, hiding my face in his mop of unruly hair. Finally, I sniffed and pulled away, kneeling in front of him and leaning forward to whisper into his ear. "Listen, little man, I need you to do something for me, okay? Under my bed, you'll find a book. It's all you need to know about Abby, about everyone. You need to help them, okay? For me?" I pleaded and he nodded, his jaw clenching and his eyes shining in anger. I squeezed his shoulder lightly and rose to my feet, spotting Abby waiting shyly beside the door, her hair falling over her eyes.

"Hey there," I greeted her and she sniffled, hiding a cough behind her arm. Stepping closer, I moved her hair to the side and placed two fingers under her chin, forcing her to look me directly in the eyes. "Don't you ever do that again, do you understand me?" I demanded, my voice shaking as I remembered the look on Cornelius' face as she had volunteered. A rush of pure fury washed through me at that instant, and I could feel my heart pounding viciously in my chest, trying to break free from its cage.

"You don't deserve to die," she replied, her answer bringing another sob to my throat. I took a deep breath and slipped beneath a mask I had not used in a while to cover my true panic. Few people were able to truly hurt me when my mask was in use, allowing me to focus on the darkest emotions my heart possessed: hatred, pride and a mercurial soul that could fit into any situation. _You forgot arrogance, _a snide voice in my head snapped, and I averted my eyes, hating my own self to a core.

"Neither do you, Abbs. You'll be fine. And who says I'm going to die? You know, I am pretty awesome," I smirked and she laughed slightly, the tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. Placing a kiss on her head, I stood up and she grabbed my hand, tugging at it slightly.

"Be careful," she said softly and my eyes locked with hers. She had truly been through much more than she dared admit, I realised then, and I pulled her into a fierce hug, probably meant more for my own sake than hers.

"Abby, you need to be smarter than Orpheus. Don't look back at me. I'm not worth it," I begged her, tears escaping my eyes as the truth behind those words brought forth another wave of self-pity. Her honey-coloured eyes widened substantially, but she nodded nevertheless, biting her lip nervously.

I rose to my feet nervously, turning to face the figure of my mother, who was only standing by virtue of Richard's arms around her. For years, we had relied stoically on each other, a relationship that had fallen apart once the patients had begun lining up at my door. Her spirit had died after the oppression, along with the stealing of her magic-an attribute she had been very proud to possess. Once the magic had been removed, something essential to HER had been removed along with it, something pure and supposedly inviolable.

"Hey, Mum," I started lamely, and her eyes snapped to mine, holding my stare for several seconds before moving away, attempting to hide her tears. Richard gave me a sympathetic look that I ignored, choosing to confront my mother for what seemed to be the last time I ever would.

"I know you're mad. We were supposed to be a family, and I screwed that up for us. But you're still my mum, and I need you now. For one last time-" I began, but she cut me off, raising a hand to stop my blabbering.

"Don't say that, Trix. You are going to live," she whispered, saying more than she had spoken to me in months. At first, I had been wrought with guilt, before I detached myself completely, slowly teaching myself to focus my care on one person at a time. My mask had been functional all this time. I was no longer the little girl my mother had bragged of to her friends. Who was I, now?

"Perhaps I will. But you have to accept that the odds are not in my favour," I urged her, her face flinching as I rephrased the sentence Cornelius had used only moments ago. Looking around anxiously, I stepped forward and placed my hand on her shoulder. "They know, Mum. About all of it. Abby, the patients, everything," I admitted and she looked at me in disbelief. Unfolding the slip of paper I had picked up from the ground, I handed it to her, and her eyes widened as she read the name upon it.

"How?" she breathed, her eyes narrowing upon the aristocratic print that blemished the paper. I shrugged lightly and shook my head.

"I don't know, and it doesn't matter. They'll be coming for you guys next," I cut across her musings sharply and she looked up angrily, her passion igniting at my blatant indignation.

"We can go further inland. Three people can survive in hiding for quite some time," she replied briskly, handing me the paper in a businesslike manner, her lips pursed in distaste.

"What about my patients? They're my family too!" I retorted, my face heating up and my hair falling on my face. "After all this time, you still can't accept that!"

She pushed away from Richard and reared on me, her blonde hair creating a cloud around her head.

"When will you accept that family is all you will have when the going gets tough? Family looks out for one another, no matter what. Why are those people in our basement of more worth than your own brother? Or me, for that matter?" she spat bitterly, her face stony as she looked at me. A stab of pain shot through my heart and I looked away, as though she had slapped me.

"They aren't. But those people kept me sane when you were gone. When I needed a shoulder to cry on after I had screwed up, they were always there. They convinced me to keep going. And, after all they have done for me, they deserve better than to just be left in the dark about their impending doom. Trust me, it's not a pleasant feeling," I stated bluntly, hysterical tears running down my face and falling upon the plush, carpeted floor beneath my feet. She looked at me with hurt eyes and drew herself up to her full height, sniffing to the side.

"Good luck," she said, storming past me and slamming the door behind her as she left, the room once again enveloped in silence. My head slumped and I let out another strangled sob at what I had done. I had been given one chance to patch things up, and I had botched it up all over again. Would my last words to my mother be those of disdain? Dread bubbled in my veins, and I felt a warm hand on my bare arm. Looking up tearily, I recognised Richard's aged face and I smiled sadly, once again falling into a pit of shame.

"Hey, it's alright," he soothed, pulling me into a tight embrace, although I could feel his body shaking tremulously. "You have to know she doesn't mean it, my dear. She's distraught," he assured me, making me shake my head against his chest in response.

"Just tell her I love her, Richard. And get her safe," I asked him softly and he nodded, placing a tender kiss on my hair, clutching me close. As I pulled away, his chocolate eyes warmed me to the core, as they always had. Oddly enough, he had become my father in more ways than my biological father ever had.

"You're tougher than you could ever imagine, Trix. I have a feeling I'll see you again," he said grandly, before reaching into his pocket and handing me what looked to be an item wrapped in his green handkerchief. "Your mother told me to give this to you. I think she knew that you would not part ways as hoped," he told me, and I unwrapped it, looking at the necklace it contained quizzically. The chain was made out of a thin, leather-like material that smelled of charcoal, with a barely noticeable, silver strand woven around it. At the end, a blue-purple feather hung as a charm, glistening like gold. Undoubtedly, the gift was beautiful, yet bizarre in its nature. _Like you,_ a voice inside my head said softly, making my other voice scowl at it angrily.

"Thank you so much," I whispered, as he slipped it around my neck, allowing me to arrange it so it fell just above my bust.

"We wanted to give this to you on your birthday, but I guess now's a good a time as any," he chuckled, his voice hitching softly in his throat as his eyes filled with tears. I smiled softly and pulled him into a hug, committing the feel of his rough stubble against my forehead to memory. Chances were, I'd never feel it again. His hands cupped my face gently and he placed a kiss on my forehead. "I'll say goodbye when you come back," he stated firmly, and I raised an eyebrow in response. Smiling sadly, he gestured for Ed and Abby to follow him and he left, closing the door behind him mutely.

Once they had left, I fell onto the couch and curled into a ball, feeling as though I would fall into the abyss. My heart wrenched painfully, and I clutched onto the soft pillow for dear life, the blood pounding in my ears and drowning out other noises. I couldn't deny that I was scared, nay, _terrified, _of what was to come.

We had only been allowed to see segments of the Aetherean games, but what we had seen had been enough to make my blood run cold. Friends had turned against each other, dying at the hands of those to whom they had pledged loyalty. Slowly, they had begun to lose their sanity and their identity, becoming little more than animals fighting over food. Many of them had died of hunger, or had fallen into the traps the Arena had contained.

The door slammed open and Caolan ran inside, his eyes crazed as he looked around, as though not seeing anything that stood in front of him. There was a cut above his left eyebrow that had begun to leak blood substantially, staining the skin beneath it. All of a sudden, the scars and wrinkles that lined his face were all more apparent, as his formerly neat suit seemed to be wrinkled as the result of a scuffle.

I rose quickly to my feet and he turned my way, an expression of hopelessness gracing his features. My heart dropped into my feet and I sniffed quietly, wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand as I let out a strangled noise stuck between a chuckle and a sob.

"What on earth happened to you?" I asked him softly, stepping forward to inspect his wound. It was not deep, but the area around the gash was badly bruised, indicating that he had been hit with some blunt object, or shoved onto the ground.

He didn't answer at first, merely pushing my hand away and raising his eyes to lock with mine. I bit my lip out of instinct and tried to look away, but he refused to let me, his hand laying almost limply upon my shoulder.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" I demanded, feeling my hands tremble slightly and my voice waver. I saw his Adam's apple bob under the stubbled skin of his neck as I nervously adjusted the collar of his suit under his scrutiny.

"They know, don't they?" he whispered finally, seeming to come out of a deep confusion as his eyes became sharp again. I let out a sigh of relief at the sudden change in emotion. Caolan had never been one to show much emotion, and I knew from experience he lived in a state of constant analysis. For a while, I had chastised him for it, knowing that bottling up his emotions would be unhealthy to his psyche, but I never thought I would be thanking him for it. I needed to shut myself behind the mask permanently now, and he was the only person who could help me with that.

"Yes. About everything, I assume," I snapped back, running my fingers through my tangled hair. He began to pace frantically, looking at various aspects of the room that I had not even noticed: the intricate crown moulding that lined the ceilings and the admittedly ghastly purple and black wallpaper that covered the walls.

"How many patients?" he inquired bluntly, and I flinched, rattling off names in my head as I tried to recall all of them. I had never quite seen him like this: he had always been extremely focused, and never so callous.

"If I were to hazard a guess, maybe around 26," I responded, choosing to fiddle nervously with the feather on the necklace rather than masochistically pulling at my hair. He nodded briskly and closed his eyes, his fingers pressing against his temples. "Why does it matter?"

"Where do you keep the medicine? And the files?" he ignored my question and continued interrogating, his back straight as a rod as he ceased pacing, looking at me in the eye.

"The medicine is either in the fridge, or in the cupboard beside the stairs. And I told Ed where I kept the files. Now, would you please tell me what the fuck this is about?" I yelled, slipping into rare profanity as I riled up, the latent effects of my former anger directing themselves at him. He smirked, clearly pleased with himself and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, leaning against the wall. "What?" I shrieked again, as his smile grew, and he began nodding to himself.

"I built you a hospital," he replied simply and I stopped in my tracks, gobsmacked. Sensing my confusion, he pushed himself off the wall and walked up to me, his hands clasped behind his back. "It's a small facility near my house, but it has running water, electricity, and, best of all, plenty of space for your patients. No more sharing beds, no more infection. If they are infectious, they can be moved to a quarantined area until they have been taken care of. And, my personal favourite, actual surgical and medical equipment, not the paper-clip and pen methods you have been using."

"How?" I managed to choke out and he laughed brightly, shrugging his shoulders.

"Trade secret, can't tell," he told me and I punched him in the arm playfully, not believing my ridiculous amount of luck.

"Thank you," I breathed out and he waved it off, his face suddenly growing exceptionally serious.

"Beatrice Donovan, you need to promise me something," he stated, and I looked over at him curiously, only to find him staring out the window, his eyes filled with hate. Slowly, he turned his head to me, his lips set into a hard line. "Show the world the truth. For once in your life, don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," I lied smoothly, my hands curling into fists by my side. Anger coursed through my body and my head tilted downwards, giving him a glare I had never given before.

"That's it, Trix. Now, listen to me. Think about the Capitol, and what they have done to you. To Abby. To everyone. What do you feel?" he said carefully, assessing my every move to calculate my reaction.

I recalled everything that had happened ever since Voldemort had won. The way they had stolen my magic and broken my mother's indomitable spirit. The smell of burning flesh that had lingered on my clothes for days after they had burned my only friend for attempting to flee the very situation I was now facing. And finally, the image of Abby as we had first found her, limp and skeletal upon the ground, her own body festering away as she shivered in the winter air. An undeniable hatred rose through my veins, bringing bile to my throat and venom in my mouth. Turning to Caolan, I clenched my jaw and swallowed heavily, fighting the tears that threatened to burst forth.

"Hatred. And anger," I admitted and he rushed forward, gripping my shoulders in a manner that was almost painful to experience.

"Focus on that. Don't think about anything else. You were meant to change the world, Trix, whether you realise it or not. Go and do something about it," he insisted, and I looked at him hesitantly.

"I'm going to die," I muttered, and he shook his head, his hands clenching around my shoulders so tightly I thought I might lose circulation.

"You damn well won't. I didn't train you to be the best for nothing. How dare you be so selfish as to give up on yourself?" he shook me and my mind cleared completely, focusing solely upon his hands on my shoulders. Taking a breath, I cut down on his left arm and twisted it painfully behind his back, my hair falling into my face as he bent forward, slapping the ground in surrender.

Shaking myself out of my haze, I stepped away, apologising furiously for the pain I had caused him.

"You see? You're goddamn deadly when you want to be, when you don't think about the consequences. Your family, all of them, will be safe with me. Stop thinking about the repercussions. There is nothing more dangerous than somebody who has nothing to lose," he enunciated and I looked at him sheepishly, averting my eyes as soon as they met his. My narcissistic side was going positively mad at the prospect of such an opportunity. Deep down, I wanted to show the world what they had done, and make them pay for the wrongs they had inflicted. I wanted it to be ME. Because I deserved it, because I had been through hell. At the same time, my responsible side was reminding me that the Capitol had found my secret once, and they could do so again. Whether I liked it or not, I held lives in my hands. _Not to mention my own,_ my cowardice whispered and I stiffened up, knowing this would most likely be a suicide mission. "Your patients, your family, would want you to do this, Trix. But it's in your hands now," Caolan smiled sadly and stepped up, placing a gentle kiss on my cheek as I looked away, too ashamed of my own self to look back.

He patted me once more upon the shoulder before turning to the door and placing his hand in the doorknob, looking to me one last time before exiting.

"I was right, by the way," he smirked, and I placed my hands on my hips, pursing my lips as I looked at him sceptically.

"About what?" I barked back and he let out a small chuckle, unabashedly looking over my figure with impressed eyes.

"You look beautiful when you're hungry for revolution," he said, straightening his back and saluting me militarily before opening the door. "Madam, it's been a pleasure," he bowed his head and exited swiftly, not leaving me any more time to remark. I blushed furiously at his remark and adjusted my dress unconsciously, preparing to leave the room with the guard. While the majority of the District knew of me, whether personally or by reputation, I had not dared to hope that anyone save for my family would have seen me off. They knew that I had just committed a deadly act of defiance in front of the Capitol, and the Peacekeepers were severe in their punishments. The scars on my back stung unpleasantly at the thought and I winced slightly, shaking my shoulders.

"Trix?" a familiar voice sounded from behind me and I turned around, only to be faced by a crowd of about ten people. My breath hitched in my throat as they stepped inside nervously, their eyes roaming the room, avoiding my own. It was the group I had become part of when _she_ had died. They had been friends of hers too, and, after she had tried to escape, they had become quite amiable to me. However, I had thought they did so merely out of a need for companionship, not because they enjoyed my presence.

"Guys? What are you doing here?" I asked them breathlessly, thinking them to be insane. The Peacekeepers would surely punish them for this.

"We came to see you off," Eletheia, a short girl with frizzy, light brown hair covered by a boyish hat, answered, her big eyes shining with incredulity, as though I should have fully expected it.

"I don't think I can take another teary goodbye," I admitted bluntly, and Reginald, the only one who I had truly grown close to, let out a brief chuckle, his icy eyes sparkling as he glanced my way.

"We're not here to give you one, Trix. 'Snot our style," he replied smartly, a charming grin crossing his face. The figure beside him, Abe, entwined their fingers together and Reginald relaxed a bit, sending him a loving look.

"Then why are you here?" I demanded tersely, causing them to smile as I placed my hands on my hips again, giving them a look that plainly asked for a response. Abe had taken to calling me mother due to my nagging him for not doing his work.

"Go and kick some ass, girl. Show 'em what you're made of," Abe grinned cockily and winked playfully. I sent him my best glare, arranging my dress unconsciously. He was clearly very pleased that someone had finally been able to wrangle me into a dress, as he had been trying to do so for ages.

"Try to remember us when you're giving your Victor's speech," Ria, a taller girl with spiky black hair, smirked, her obsidian eyes sparkling with her average, dark humour. I couldn't help but smile brightly at their statements, feeling my previous worries float off as they generally did in the company of friends.

"How will you guys survive without me?" I wondered aloud, waving my hand for dramatic effect. Several of them looked down sheepishly, but the twins of the group, Susannah and Johanna, looked at each other with shocked expressions, their bright brown eyes peeking out behind infamously fiery hair.

"You mean-" Susannah began, crossing her arms tightly and looking at me expectantly.

"Without your advice-" Johanna continued, her freckled face gleaming with mischief.

"Or consent-" Susannah picked up quickly, flicking her hair back.

"We wouldn't last a day!" they chorused together, to the laughs and eye-rolls of the group. Bowing dramatically, they joined in the laughter and shrugged my way, making me roll my eyes at their antics.

"I'll miss you guys," I told them nervously and they quieted down somewhat, their faces flushing despite the jolly mood they had helped to create. Ria swallowed heavily, letting her confidence melt to show the worry she felt beneath.

"We'll miss you too. At least I can now have as much sugar as I want," Reginald joked lamely, earning him a look from Abe that caused him to look at the ground in shame.

"I'm not going to be the one stealing you insulin if you get diabetes," I tried to smile, but his look of shock told me I had once again spoken without thinking. I felt the blood rise to my cheeks and looked outside, noticing that the sun was close to setting. Had it really been that long since I had awoken, shared my last breakfast with Richard and laughed with Caolan?

"That's a shame. Stealing medicine is so much fun," Ria commented, running a stray hand through her messy hair, surreptitiously wiping at her eyes as she did so. She had been one of many who had been separated from their parents, left to find another home. Mayor Scudder had taken her in, and she had been thus given almost complete immunity from the Reaping. I could tell she regretted it now, as her forehead was creased and her lips mashed into a firm line.

"And how would you know, Ree?" I inquired, genuinely curious. She smiled like a wolf and looked down, playing with the many rings that adorned her thin fingers.

"Who else but us would have been clever enough to get away with stocking your hospital, Trix? I thought you were supposed to be smart," she commented drily, and, almost in unison, the crowd before me smirked, Abe sending me another wily wink. The twins sent me wide, identical grins and I felt a sob catch in my throat.

"I don't know what to say," I choked out and Ria rolled her eyes in response, stepping forward and looking at me sharply. She moved around me silently, pulling my shoulders back so I'd stand up straight and moving my hair so it fell slightly over my eyes. Finally, she grabbed my right hand and placed her favourite ring-one bearing an intricate snake with onyx eyes-on my middle finger. She sent me a sly look and pulled me into a tight embrace, her tall, slim figure holding me close to her.

As she let go, the rest of the group advanced behind her, each pulling me into an embrace that spoke of emotions unsaid: worry, regret, but, most of all, love. Susannah and Johanna treated me to a sandwiched hug from the both of them, while Abe nearly swept me off my feet with a bear hug I had not seen coming.

Once the barrage of hugs had ended, Ria gave me a final punch to the shoulder and gestured for the group to follow her out of the room, leaving me flabbergasted in their wake. I fingered Ria's ring nervously and looked down on it with a smile, its eyes flickering in the light of the setting sun.

The Peacekeeper outside opened the door briskly and gestured with his weapon for me to exit the room. Toshka was already there, leaning casually against the blood-coloured walls, his light eyes trained carefully on the Peacekeeper guarding him.

"It's Trix, isn't it?" he spoke suddenly, looking at me from under his hair. He continued to absentmindedly play with a pair of cuff links in his hand, rolling them around in his palm as though it were a meditative exercise. I conjectured that he had been given those as his token, and the gears in my mind begun turning as I pondered their significance.

"That's my name," I replied briskly, causing him to chuckle and push himself off the wall and wave at the Peacekeeper to move forward.

We walked in silence past the halls, my eyes trained to the floor while my senses were on high alert. The path was no longer lit by the light from the windows, but, rather, by the opulent light furnishings that hung from the walls and ceilings. As we exited out the back, I took a minute to close my eyes and take a deep breath, the soothing smell of seawater assaulting my senses. Surprisingly, the back alley was vacant of people, and I looked up, noticing that the mercurial weather had won again, bringing in storm clouds from the Gulf. Before the Migration, our city had been hit hard by a hurricane, and a majority of the city was still decimated as a result. A sleek black vehicle waited in front of us and I stopped in my tracks. It had been ages since I had seen a car, much less been in one. My curiosity instantly took over, and I looked the shape over eagerly, not recognising the model at first sight.

Slowly, the window rolled down, and the skeletal, diamond-embedded hand of our sponsor gestured two fingers at us, inviting us to join him in the car. Toshka looked at the growling metal creature apprehensively before nodding to himself and entering, hitting his head as he passed the entryway. I snorted at his face and he grinned widely, taking me off guard as I settled into the cool, leather seats. His demeanour was relatively quiet, but he seemed to sense my trepidation and fear almost instantly, while he seemed to still be completely calm. Then again, he had volunteered for this.

I tried to look out the window, but the sight of my home brought too many tears to my eyes. This city was truly beautiful, nearly plucked out of a fairy tale. Richard had often remarked that he had felt as though he had been dropped into another century when he had landed here.

When we had first moved here, after the Migration, but before the Peacekeepers had taken over, one would hear music in the streets at night. Sometimes, I thought I could still hear the sad cry of a saxophone, lamenting the loss of someone, or something. Then, the streets would smell of spice, of sugar, of joy. The arrival of the Peacekeepers had squashed the spirit of the people. We lived in a constant state of fear, where survival of the fittest had to be our prerogative.

"_Au revoir, ma Nouvelle-Orléans,_" I whispered, and I spotted Toshka nodding almost imperceptibly from my peripheral vision.

Caught in my thoughts, the procession seemed to have only lasted minutes, and the car stopped abruptly, making me clutch the seat firmly for support. The window that separated the front of the car from the back rolled down, and our sponsor turned around, looking me sharply in the eyes. They were a near-black, and the intensity of his stare sent a chill down my spine.

"We have arrived," he told us simply, his eyes flickering over our figures apprehensively. "Well, you're not superstars, but I suppose you'll do," he muttered, almost to himself. I swallowed heavily and looked down, my eyes landing on the ring. _Be Ria. _

Flipping my hair back, I stared right back at him and set my jaw, smoothing my hands over my dress in a business-like manner.

"Shall we proceed, then? I assume we are on a tight schedule," I retorted sharply, pulling my proverbial mask over my face once again. Cornelius' eyes narrowed in anger, and he leaned over a tad more, his thin hands grasping the barrier to steady himself.

"Do not forget to whom you are speaking, insolent child. Your fate is in my hands," he threatened and I snorted in response, surprising both Toshka and myself. _Who knew I could be so...rebellious?_

"Then, please feel free and step into the Arena for me, won't you? Because I have better things to do," I replied and his mouth crooked into an ominous grin, promising death.

"You think I don't know who you are, Beatrice Donovan? It would be only too easy to let you die," he said softly, inclining an eyebrow. My blood curdled at his words, and I shrugged in nonchalance.

"It would be an honour to die for Panem," I smiled, venom dripping from my words as I kept my eyes locked on his, not backing down from the argument.

"But not for Aether?" he asked me, and I blanched, realising that my accent was still quite prominent under duress. He smiled predatorily, and turned away, just as the door to the car opened, revealing a mass of people gathered in front of the train station. The blinding flash of cameras startled me, but I stepped out of the car with as much grace as I could muster, keeping my head held high out of sheer arrogance. I spotted no recognisable faces in the crowd, and I let out a deep sigh of relief, as the place was being guarded by what seemed to be the entire Peacekeeper force.

The train itself seemed to be a marvel of engineering, with a streamlined design. Upon further inspection, the train seemed to be floating above the rails and I smiled softly, knowing that Caolan would gave gone positively giddy with excitement over this tiny detail. Toshka, like me, seemed to be more interested in the train than the camera reporters, as he had already ran inside, and was waving at me eagerly to join him.

Giving the crowd one last look, I climbed the stairs into the train, and my breath caught in my throat.

The train was carpeted in a thick, red fabric that let my feet sink deeply, the fibres nearly covering my toes like a fluffy sock. Looking ahead, it seemed as though the train were endless, just compartment after compartment opulently decorated in similar furnishings. Directly ahead of us, the car bore several plush chairs, exotic plants that I could not recognise, and a single, ebony grand piano, that looked as though it had never been touched.

Absentmindedly, I ran my hand along the wall, looking at it curiously as I realised it was panelled in fine silk, coloured a dark brown. Toshka was looking around in wonderment, as though he couldn't believe the sheer luxury that enveloped us.

Suddenly, the doors shut behind me and the train lurches forward, causing me to morph instinctually into my fighting stance, the hair on my neck standing up.

"So, you've had prior training?" Cornelius' velvety snide voice rang out, and I cursed under my breath, drawing myself up to my full height and turning around to face him.

"Why is that any of your concern?" I snapped back, and his gaze darkened, waving off his doe-eyed assistant with a lazy flick of his hand.

"Listen to me, Donovan. For the next three months, I own you. You don't eat if I say you don't. And, when the Arena is good and ready, you'll be wishing you had a friend outside the lion's den to provide you with some help. So, I suggest you show me a bit more respect," he whispered, leaning over my short frame and breathing in my face. A shudder ran down my back as I realised he smelled like smoke and rust.

"With that hair?" I snorted, rolling my eyes and walking away, settling myself in a chair towards the end of the carriage, smiling at the chuckling figure of Toshka, who was leaning over the back of his chair, watching the countryside blur outside us.

Cornelius straightened himself up and pressed a button upon the console. Almost instantaneously, a black-haired woman appeared, dressed in a simple pair of white pants and a shirt. Her eyes were wide with fear, and I felt an urge to jump between her and Cornelius.

"Show them to their rooms," Cornelius ordered her and she nodded fervently, looking down at the floor. With small, hurried steps, she gestured for us to follow her, and we proceeded to walk further down the train, past dining carts and seating areas.

Finally, we reached a passage that was narrower, with walls panelled in the same rich wood as the furnishing of our Justice Building.

The woman opened a door on her right, and smiled nervously at Toshka. He gave me an uncertain glance, and I nodded slightly.

"I'll be right next door," I promised him and he grinned almost sadly, before stepping forward and giving me a tight hug, rushing back in his room with reddened cheeks. I gave a small chuckle, sobering up only as the woman opened another door, waving a hand to indicate it was mine.

"Thank you," I told her and she blushed brilliantly, clearly taken aback by my behaviour. Turning around, she practically ran from me, leaving me standing in silence.

I stepped into my room slowly, my eyes darting around suspiciously, looking for cameras. Satisfied that I could not spot any, I took my time to take in the sheer elegance of my room. The floor was carpeted in a deep grey, although it bore the same plushness as the previous one. A cream-coloured couch and a black, velvet armchair graced the foyer, the far wall being replaced by an immense, ceiling to floor window. In the middle of the space, a wall rose from the floor, where a flat-panelled television rested precariously. My bedroom was separated from my apparent living area by thick curtains, intended to insulate my bed from outside noises. Biting my lip, I sat on my bed and leaned back, looking up to see another screen, larger than the one in my living area. The bed was one of the most comfortable I had ever sat upon, although it was a bit too cool for my taste. As I sat back up, I noticed that the curtains had closed, and a panel of unmarked buttons had risen from the floor. Feeling curious, I pressed the middle one, and another part of the wall gave way, revealing a spacious bathroom, seemingly having been carved out of a single block of marble by an expert sculptor. The shower was a prismatic enclosure made out of glass and I blushed profusely, realising it would hide nothing from my figure. At the far side, a bathtub the size of a jacuzzi rose from the stone, overlooking a magnificent view of the outside of our train.

I pressed another button on the console, and the panel that separated me from another area disappeared, revealing an obscene amount of clothing, hung neatly from bars, or folded precisely into drawers. Quickly, I pressed the same button again, letting out a sigh of relief as the closet disappeared.

Cautiously, I chose a final button with which to experiment, and a holographic screen rose from the panel of buttons, which gave way to a keyboard.

The screen bore various bands and artists that I could not recognise, and I chose the 'Search' box instead, typing in the name of a band I had frequently listened to before the War. Instantly, a list of songs appeared and I chose one at random, recognising the jive-like drum pattern beneath the heavy guitar.

Turning the volume up, I slipped out of my clothing and shoes, removing my jewellery and laying it on the soft covers of my bed.

As I closed the door to the shower, a pressurised stream of luke-warm water began pouring, and I shivered violently, turning the knob to the near-highest temperature. When the water became near-scalding, I stepped back underneath the stream and sighed deeply, letting my day's worries fade away under the combined invigorating effects of the music and shower. As the song changed into a more sombre, acoustic lament, I looked around, seeing no soap containers along the wall. I accidentally let my hand brush the smooth marble, and a bowl of blue cream emerged from the wall. Sniffing tentatively, I began rubbing it onto my skin, relishing in the intense mint scent that enveloped me. Reaching over to get some to rub into my hair, the bowl pulled away, only to have another jerk out from the wall. I laughed exuberantly, as though I had become a child once again, and washed my hair with the goop, watching it turn into a rich lather akin to meringue under my hands.

After what seemed to be hours, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a fluffy, white towel around my figure. Pointedly avoiding the mirror, I re-entered my bedroom and pushed-albeit regrettably-the button on the console that revealed the closet. I cringed and rolled my eyes, flipping past too-small jeans and backless tops. Finally, I found a pair of slightly torn jeans that fit past my thighs, and a thick, woollen grey sweater that would shield me from the frigid air conditioning that stubbornly wished to keep the train in, what I called, "Ice Station Zebra" condition.

Sighing, I bounced back onto the bed, typing in the name of another band, and selecting one of their quieter pieces.

I could feel my eyes drooping as I slipped the ring and necklace back on, and as soon as my head hit the cool pillow, they slid shut with exhaustion as I fell into a sound sleep.

**A/N: So, how'd I do? I know I spend a lot of time on descriptions, but honestly, I'm not going to apologize for that. Bonus points to anyone who understands the Ice Station Zebra reference. If you don't, go watch the Newsroom. ASAP! Cornelius is beginning to freak me out a little, but I loved the goodbyes. I'm a sap, no need to remind me. Please, if you read this, leave me a review, whether it be scalding or complimentary. And, if you have any thoughts, suggestions, anything really, leave those in the review too. Free chocolate covered popcorn to those who do! **


	4. All That Glitters Is Not Gold

**A/N: Happy Boxing Day! Hey, guys. Bet you thought I had disappeared. Honestly, so had I. Sometimes, I have such long breaks between chapters, I wonder how I ever get people reading the full story. Guess I'm just ridiculously lucky. I'm really sorry for doing so, though, everything has been insane. And, even when I had free time, I didn't have the energy to pull myself up by the bootstraps and finish this chapter. It is shorter than the others, but mainly because the next one may be relatively long, and I didn't want to cram it all into one. Deep thanks to the Elves, Batmarcus, InTheDarknessWithNoLight(I'm actually also looking forward to the fights. Seems I'm really violent on the inside), Guest, and Xoria. It seems that I'm really not as subtle as I was hoping to be. But really, am I that blatant. What gave it away. In any case, this chapter is for my sis, who deserves this after the silence I have given her for far too long. **

**Soundtrack Suggestion: Bring Me To Life by Evanescence. For Mercuria.**

I was awoken abruptly to the sensation of someone poking me in the kidneys repeatedly, much like Ed was wont to do when he wished to annoy me.

"Don't wanna get up," I mumbled blearily, curling myself into a tight ball and willing my eyes to remain closed.

"I'm afraid that isn't an option," a gratingly polite, icy voice answered, and my back stiffened, Cornelius' presence immediately drawing me out of my child-like antics.

Drawing myself up, I turned around and swept my tangled hair to the side, blinking sporadically to regain focus in my vision.

A silently snickering Toshka was seated on my bed, his dark hair falling into his high-spirited eyes as his unnaturally deep laugh filled the room.

"You should have seen your face!" he sniggered, his face turning red from the lack of oxygen.

Groaning loudly, I fell back onto the bed and tried to bury my head in the sheets, albeit unsuccessfully. Slowly, the blaring music began to register in my ear and I smiled contentedly, recognising the roaring guitar and screaming of the lead singer. Toshka flung his legs on the mattress, sitting Indian style beside my pillow. His face screwed up in thought, and he looked around, like a dog sniffing the air for a specific scent.

"Never took you for emo," he commented sharply, his eyebrow arched as he looked at me. Raising myself up on my elbow, I sent him a pointed look and rolled my eyes, ruffling my hair sleepily as I sat up to join him.

"Never took you for a stalker," I retorted, and he inclined his head, his eyes glittering once again with the same mischievous humour. Fiddling nervously with the cufflinks in his hand, I saw his eyes darken, and he swallowed heavily.

"What is this music, anyway?" he asked, breaking the void of silence as soon as it was about to suck me into its deceptively calm depths.

"A release," I answered, and he looked up at me curiously. I noted that he, unlike myself, had not yet cleaned up, and I felt a sudden urge to pull him into my arms and tell him everything would be alright.

"I always imagined you'd be...normal, I guess," he iterated hesitantly, and I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head in dismay. As though I hadn't heard that sentiment before.

"Things are never what they seem," I pointed out, and he blanched slightly, his figure beginning to shake. Suddenly, he took a deep breath and calmed himself, bouncing lightly on the bed.

"I'm sorry you were chosen. Out of everyone, it's terrible," he admitted, and I looked into his eyes, seeing the true regret behind them. The blood rose to my face and I glanced at my hands, tears threatening to burst from my eyes. _What if I never see them again?_

"Why did you volunteer?" I inquired, genuinely curious as to his motivations. Shrugging slightly, he locked his eyes with mine for the first time.

"To escape," he whispered, and I nodded in understanding. While I may have loved my home, it truly was a cruel place, controlled by those with ultimate, never-ending power. The power of life and death was a potent drug, and they only sought more of it, often ending the lives of citizens as they strove onward. Perhaps I loved the memory of my home more than the reality, or the select rather than the masses.

"In any case, I was told to come here and wake you. Cornelius said we've passed District 9, and it's almost dinnertime," he stated, and, almost on cue, my stomach growled in agreement. Grinning deviously, he jumped off the bed and through the curtains, gesturing for me to follow him.

The smell of freshly baked bread and cheese made my mouth water, and I walked down the hall, following the scent until I reached a circular dining room, framed by glass and rich velvet drapes and floored in what looked to be ivory marble and mahogany wood. In the centre lay an opulently decorated table underneath a crystal chandelier that seemed to be tinkling along to its own little tune.

"Maybe we Capitol citizens know how to do certain things right, Ms. Donovan. Please do sit down," Cornelius' voice sounded, his too-sweet breath clouding the side of my face. Choosing to ignore him, I merely straightened my sweater and sat myself at the table, arranging my hair so that it fell on one side of my face. Toshka pulled his chair next to mine, eyeing the ceiling fixture with great interest.

"Will it be just the three of us?" I asked briskly, as Cornelius arranged his silk napkin across his knees with a deft precision. In response, he merely glanced over at the hall, where a shadow was leaning against the wall.

After several seconds, the unrecognisable woman I had seen on the stage at the Reaping emerged, clothed in a caramel-coloured sweater and wide black pants that moved like a skirt with every step she took.

"This is-" Cornelius began, waving an airy hand toward the petite woman.

"I am quite able to introduce myself, Cornelius. Thank you," she snapped back, albeit quietly. Her tone of voice reminded me somewhat of my teacher's when she issued a reprimand, and I glanced at her anxiously, wondering why she was here.

"My name is Mercuria. I will be your Mentor for the next three months," she told us softly, sitting soundlessly upon the chair next to Cornelius, who looked as though he had swallowed something particularly sour. _What a shame, _I thought, with an inward snigger.

"What's a mentor?" Toshka muttered around a piece of bread and butter, eyes alight with curiosity. Mercuria smiled sadly, her familiar chocolate eyes looking away briefly as she breathed deeply, her eyelashes falling over her freckled cheeks as she blinked.

"I am someone who has won a Game in the past, and must thus continue her service by training subsequent Tributes, such as yourself, Toshka," she replied, taking her thin wine glass in her thin fingers to take a delicate sip. I briefly thought about the fact that she had already gotten to know our names, but did not linger on it for long, raising my eyes to meet hers. We stayed in silence like that for a while, simply looking into each other's eyes, until her eyebrows scrunched together in thought, looking at me rather curiously.

"How did you win?" Toshka inquired bluntly and she stiffened, looking at him with an expression of utmost pain. Her shortly chopped light brown hair shook lightly upon her brow, and I saw her nervously tracing her left ring finger, as though in search of something.

Finally, she raised her eyes to ours, and replied calmly, "I threw a knife into the back of my love's head."

The table went silent, and I looked away in shame, disgust at the woman sitting across from me accumulating in the back of my throat.

"How?" I asked her, trying to comprehend the intensity of such an act. I had seen so many husbands and wives dying to protect one another during the Migration, or from the cruelty of the Peacekeepers, the idea seemed unfathomable.

Mercuria placed her hands on the table and looked me in the eye, a trace of red evident in her teary eyes.

"It was either me or them. He begged me to do so," she said morosely, gazing at me with grave eyes. "You may not understand now, but it will soon become clear."

Before I could interject, the Avox came in, platters of food in hand, and set the table, removing the covers of the plates in one, synchronised motion. The smell of rich, expensive food wafted to my nose and I inhaled deeply. I had always been a foodie, or a connoisseur, as my Mum put it. Before the Migration, she had joked that I would sell my heart to the first man who would feed me properly.

Toshka seized the first platter in front of him, containing something fried that looked absolutely delectable. Cornelius smacked his lips and chose a plate of sea bass, with gnocchi and white sauce on the side. Mercuria smiled at me nervously and chose upon a light rice dish, containing ingredients I could not identify.

Choosing at random, I came across a vat of brown soup with several crumbs upon it that I ladled onto my plate, tearing at the round, crusty bread in the centre with brute force. Cornelius shot me a severe look and I merely brushed my hands free of crumbs and chose a dark purple, bubbly drink from the array they had offered us. Sipping it carefully, I tasted a myriad of ginger, blackberry and something else unique that invigorated my senses.

"Tell me more about yourselves," Mercuria requested, and I nudged Toshka to indicate that he should go first. Shooting me a look of pure evil, he obnoxiously chose a crispier piece of potato and chewed upon it for a while, as though pondering the mysteries of the world. The soup I had chosen turned out to be an onion, with crumbles of smoked, flavourful cheese littered across the top in a decadent, warm dish that I tried very hard not to simply gulp down.

"There's not much to say, to be honest. My parents are gone, I have no other family anymore. And, I guess, I was a wizard before, you know, He came," Toshka mumbled nervously, and Mercuria nodded ponderously, her eyebrows scrunched together in thought.

"What about your combat skills?" she asked, taking another sip of wine.

"None to speak of. I mean, I guess I can handle a knife okay, but I'm not all that smart. You should ask Trix, though. She's the one you want," he looked at me pointedly and I blushed fiercely, feeling my face turn a deep pink. Toshka smiled sadly and continued eating, his eyes blank as he shovelled potato after potato into his mouth.

"By all means, Trix. Do elaborate," Mercuria chuckled softly, dabbing at her mouth with an emerald silk handkerchief.

"I really don't know what he's talking about. I'm pretty smart, but that's it," I mumbled, causing Toshka to snort some of the milk he had been drinking.

"You know, for someone so arrogant, you're surely quite shy," he commented, turning to Mercuria. "She's brilliant, really. Scary if you get her angry, but she's usually very nice. And she's had training."

I shot Toshka a glare, as the woman's eyes narrowed once again, although I spotted a glimmer of admiration in her eyes.

"Stand up," she instructed, and I followed suit, the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up in anxiety.

Crossing over to me slowly, Mercuria's eyes narrowed in an expression I could not decipher. Suddenly, she lunged at me with the same knife she had been eating, and I stepped to her side, spinning her around by her forearm and matching my hand to hers, applying pressure until the knife had fallen to the ground.

"Very good," she remarked, rotating her wrist with an evident expression of discomfort.

"I'm so sorry! I truly didn't mean to hurt you!" I exclaimed, and she looked at me bizarrely, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you always this anti-violent?" Cornelius interjected, a sneer plastered on his full lips.

"Yes," I replied haughtily, picking the knife up and placing it onto the table. Mercuria shot me a look that was a tad too soul-searching for my taste, and I sat back down, tearing off another piece of bread.

"There is one thing that you must know about the Games," she told us, adjusting her sweater as she sat back down, "They will strip away every ounce of self you have. Once you are in the Arena, you will do things that you had sworn to yourself you would never do - that is inevitable. To survive, you have to just shut it away. Shut out the emotion, the conscience, the outside world and focus on why you need to come out alive."

Silence overcame the table, and Toshka and I just looked at her for what seemed like a lifetime. Cornelius, of course, paid no heed to this and continued eating daintily, taking occasional sips from his glass of amber liquid.

"What were you like, before the Games?" the boy beside me suddenly asked, his voice oddly high-pitched. Mercuria smiled sadly, tears forming at the end of her chocolate eyes.

"I don't quite remember all that well, I'm afraid. But, I suppose, I was a good person then. That is all that matters."

Toshka nodded, his lips drawing up at the ends, as though satisfied with her response.

We continued eating for a while, neither of us gathering the courage to delve any furthering into the mysterious mind of our Mentor. Once we had finished with the savoury aspects of the meal, the Avox appeared out of the blue, cleaning the table with bowed heads. My stomach was full and I sat back, enjoying the lingering flavours of the sumptuous food that I had dearly missed since the Migration. Within seconds, the table was covered in an array of sweeter dishes, all divided into small, delicately arranged portions. Too sluggish to make a proper decision, I chose the one that lay directly in front of me, a relatively small glass with browned, crunchy-looking ball suspended in a pink sauce.

"What happens now?" I asked Cornelius, who nearly dropped his fork at my direct address. Finishing his bite of a greenish, shiny cake, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and turned to me, his dark eyes zeroing in, as though to analyse my emotions.

"Once the train arrives at the Capitol in the morning, you will be taken to aesthetic preparations, where they will prepare you to meet your Stylist. We will then show you to the Tribute's Tower, which is where you'll be staying, along with the other Tributes. In the evening, you will be unveiled to the Capitol in your greatest glory - during the Opening Ceremonies. Although I suppose I shouldn't hope for too much, considering the pair of you," he sneered, and I clenched my fist, taking a vicious scoop of my dessert. As the food touched my lips, I was assaulted by hot and cold, sour and sweet, as the fried ice cream melted in my mouth, blocking my insecurities from producing any noticeable difference.

I had never thought of myself as truly beautiful. My figure was certainly not perfect, as much as my friends and family tried to convince me it was so. When I looked in the mirror, I never quite felt like myself. There were days, of course, when my confidence was boosted, perhaps by an instance where my hair fell nicely, or when my stomach did not seem like such a protuberance. I was terribly insecure, and ashamed to admit it. As much as I feigned nonchalance, it was no use to deny it to my heart.

"Who are the other Tributes?" Toshka inquired plainly, his mouth bearing slight tinges of the chocolate cake he had been wolfing down. I took another ravenous bite of the confection in front of me, my eyes still averted, although I could feel Mercuria's eyes boring into my head.

"Thank you, boy. I had almost forgotten. As soon as dinner is over, we shall retire into the sitting room to watch the broadcasted programme of the Reapings. It should not take too long," Cornelius smiled shark-like at Toshka, who gulped and took another nervous bite of his cake.

Our Sponsor was true to his word. The second we had finished the sugary dishes, he stood from the table and motioned for us to follow him, Mercuria bringing up the rear.

The sitting room was beyond the dining room, a greater distance from our train cabins. It contained a single, red leather sofa in the centre, shaped like a C. I rolled my eyes at its subtle message and curled up in the middle, only to have Toshka curl up cat-like at my feet. When I ruffled his hair affectionately, he sent me a look that was both irked and amused at the same time, an expression I often saw on Ed's face when I went off on a tangent when explaining his homework to him.

Mercuria went over to the wall, opening a cabinet that contained what I recognised as several alcoholic beverages. Seizing a glass, she filled half of it with red wine, and the rest with a drink I discerned to be scotch. Without even looking, she deposited several cloves, citrus peels and a pinch of sugar therein, before delicately selecting a cinnamon stick and stirring her drink absentmindedly. Meanwhile, Cornelius had seated himself stiffly upon the sofa, and was typing something into the console beside him.

The room went dark, and a screen appeared on the wall, bearing a ludicrous looking man who proclaimed his name to be Cosimo Wallensius. Toshka buried his face in my calf to muffle his uncontrollable snickering at this man's eccentric behaviour, though I was more disturbed by the entire act as a whole.

Had they truly, then, turned this into a spectacle? Were we nothing more than contestants on an obscene reality show? By the sounds of the crowd's rousing applause, they were eager to witness this gladiator match among children, some of whom were no older that twelve. The idea that ANYONE would volunteer for this monstrosity seemed incomprehensible to me, even for escape, as Toshka had. Perhaps I was a coward, but I could not deny that a part of me, regardless of its size, yearned for the opportunity to show the world my supremacy, my victory above the rest. But to have to kill an innocent, a child for such glory? The bile rose to my throat at such a concept.

The footage began displaying the shining metropolis of District One, so different from our antiquated streets. None of us had yet had the privilege of viewing the success - or failure - of the other Districts. All we knew was their purpose: District One provided luxury items, District Two, weapons, District Three, technology, District Five, power, District Six, transportation, District Seven, lumber, District Eight, textiles, District Nine, grain, District Ten, lumber, District Eleven, agriculture, District Twelve, coal, and District Thirteen, a variety of nuclear products. We were responsible for the fishing industry, as well as the cultivation of rice, sugar and cotton. If we showed particular talent, we were taken to the oil platforms out in the ocean. As those individuals never returned, we never knew what happened of them, but it was incredibly rare for someone to aspire to such a task.

The two Tributes from the first District were both volunteers: the female a statuesque girl with regal, perfect features and the male a bulky, muscular boy with black hair streaked with white, and a devious smile. Sapphira Golde and Blain Sype.

How the hell was I ever supposed to compete with THAT? Barely one District in, and I highly doubted I would stand a chance against either of them. Perhaps if I got close enough to the girl, I could throw her off of me, but the brutish male sent chills down my back that I could not ignore.

The following two were a contrasting pair, the boy as dark as the girl was light. Indigo Stormwell looked vicious, unrelenting, while the boy, Lytra, seemed relatively clueless. She was a Volunteer, and he, despite having been reaped, shot apparently winning smiles at the camera.

The demeanour shifted dramatically as we viewed the District Three Reaping, during which an air-brained girl named Sparkle that had volunteered made a grand show of the younger, feminine-featured boy, Marquis, as he wept on stage. Again, the audience in the studio burst with applause and I glanced at Mercuria, whose phalangeal bones poked from beneath her skin as she gripped the glass tightly.

As the tape from our Reaping rolled, I caught glimpses of my friends and family in the crowd, and their expressions of horror as my name was called. Ria and Eletheia had clenched jaws, while Reg just stared straight at me in disbelief. Once more, my throat convulsed as Abby ran forward, attempting to volunteer in my place. The look on my face was murderous as I confronted Cornelius, and I felt a twinge of pride at the way I had managed to be portrayed on camera, knowing how close I had been to cracking on the inside.

As Toshka ascended the stairs, my hand unconsciously went to my necklace, stroking the unbelievably silky feather at the end. I felt the ends of my fingers prickle oddly, and shook my hand, believing it had gone numb for some odd reason. Mercuria shot me a perplexed, piercing look, and I blushed, focusing my attention back on the screen.

The Reaping for District Five was already underway, the female Tribute already standing on the stage, her bright blue eyes reflecting the electric current that ran below the citizens' feet. She reminded me a tad of Abby, or what I imagined Abby to have looked like before her condition worsened, with rich golden hair and a face that seemed to radiate, although her eyes revealed a kind of dejection and loss of hope. Daivat, the male Tribute, was making his way up the stage now, his lips curled into an arrogant smirk as his oh-so-carefully tousled hair fell into his eyes. Unlike the dark-skinned moron from District Two, Daivat seemed to pose more of a threat, his near-crazed eyes shining with a kind of lust for power, and the muscles in his forearms tensed. I took a shallow breath and closed my eyes, trying to relax my ever-active mind. Already, it was plotting how to outmanoeuvre some of the opponents with which I had been presented. Apparently, I was not so virtuous as I had thought.

The appearance of the inhabitants of District Six make me gasp quite audibly, causing Cornelius to glance at me in surprise.

"Morphling addicts," he explained, his eyes losing their cruel sparkle as he swallowed a gulp of his whiskey heavily. At that moment, he seemed more human than I could have ever predicted him to be.

The male Tribute was of muscular build, and he seemed virtually nonplussed by the situation, even flipping off the camera, a gesture that made me chuckle and, at the same time, fear for his life. Out of shock, the wizened Sponsor chose another name from the male pile of slips, calling up a boy who coughed violently, barely able to walk several steps. A girl yelled from the crowd and ran forward to volunteer, as her brother yelled for her to stop behind the restricting arms of the Peacekeepers. As she stated her name and age, the tears rolled freely from her eyes, while her beer-bellied Sponsor inked giddily from the background.

The camera faded to black to the sounds of screams from the girl's brother as he was punished for his insubordination.

I fought back a slew of anger and sadness as the playback from the wooded District Seven, my vision blurring as I watched the commanding, breathtaking female Tribute correct the Sponsor on the pronunciation of her name, and rise with impossible grace to the stage. Wiping my eyes carefully, I watched as the male Tribute, a boy of fifteen with fiery hair and a handsome face that framed a pair of eyes the colour of pine trees, rose to the stage, stopping only in front of another red headed boy, who seemed to be on the verge of volunteering in his place. His jaw was set as he declared his age, his broad shoulders straight as a rod. A small, sad smile formed on my lips and I prayed that I wouldn't have to kill him.

Who, then, would I kill? Even the first couple of Tributes seemed human, with fears and hopes and dreams. Could I be so cruel as to rip them apart, without so much as a second glance? It went against everything I believed, everything that I had been taught. Even if I hid until the very end, I would ultimately have to kill, at least once.

District Eight's Tributes were, like those from District Two, almost complete opposites. The boy was stocky, with an arrogant sneer, while the girl was short and stuttering, tears clouding her eyes and rolling down her soft, feminine features. Both had the look of being malnourished, with greyer, less vibrant skin than what was normal, but the boy seemed to have scavenged enough to provide for the visible, lean muscles under his skin. Most people would have probably viewed him as irresistible, his slanted grey eyes and tanned skin making him quite attractive, but I could only gaze at him with slight disgust. I tended to prefer blondes, anyways.

Standing up, I went to a nearby table bearing a variety of non-alcoholic drinks and chose a glass bottle containing a yellow-orange fizzy liquid. Popping off the cap, I took a small sip, finding that it was reminiscent of orange, and, oddly enough, mince pie. Nevertheless, it was delicious and I sat back down, Toshka immediately reclaiming his curled position by my legs.

I only caught a glimpse of District Nine's Tributes, a scarily thin, chocolate-skinned girl with wide eyes, and a taller boy with eyes that seemed to be pondering the secrets of the world.

My hair stood on end as the female Tribute of the next District was selected, her demeanour reminding me of my own, though she seemed to have endured a great deal more hardship than I had. She held the crying male Tribute firmly in her hands, and although her eyes conveyed great sympathy, she was looking away, feigning dispassion. With milky skin and a slim, yet soft figure, she reminded me of a silent movie star, the purple cut across her cheekbone the only thing detracting from her beauty.

Swallowing back another wave of my seemingly endless self-pity, I felt Toshka squeeze my free hand and I looked down, only to find him sending me a reassuring grin, as though he had read my thoughts. Giving him a wry smile, I took another sip from the bottle and focused my attention on the screen, where a girl dressed in a men's suit was climbing the stage after having Volunteered, her unique, heart-shape face displaying a rigid determination and arrogance. However, as the curly-haired, lanky male was climbing the stairs, Zita(for that was her name) displayed nothing but sheer terror and shock, her pale green eyes wide, and her hands trembling. Nibbling at my lip in thought, I recalled a patient who had been much the same, at one point begging for help, and the next refusing it. He often spent much time talking to himself, but I honestly never paid him much mind, as his wounds were mostly psychological, and I could offer no help to him except for an open ear.

I was brought back to earth by the sound of a scream, as the female Tribute from District Twelve - a petite girl with dirty blonde hair tied from her face by a bandana - was forcibly returned to the stage by a pair of Peacekeepers who didn't seem to be too intent on not harming her, after she had attempted to escape to her family. Her eyes were grey, with a circle of gold around her pupil, and they were sharply contracted in fear as she was flanked by the two towering men. Her counterpart, the male Tribute, was tall and bone-thin, although he looked quite intimidating, with dark hair and eyes that were both unafraid, yet avoiding any camera.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotter Mercuria shoot down the last of her drink with desperation, as though it were the only thing rooting her to reality.

Mercifully, the District Thirteen Reaping was relatively quick, although the Sponsor's pained, sombre demeanour undoubtedly caught my eye. The first name he chose was that of a boy with the blackest hair I had ever seen, fitting the pattern of extreme hair colours that seemed to envelop the room. Almost immediately, an elf-like girl with bright red hair rushed to the stage, her bright brown eyes dead of emotion. She was also very skinny, but it seemed to suit her more naturally than the others, her pale skin only accentuating the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Like the girl from District Ten, she was very attractive, and I briefly wondered if the Capitol had somehow rigged the system to choose people that seemed to fit the Capitol aesthetic. _So, why were YOU chosen?_ I seemed to spit at myself,and I took another swig of my juice, frowning as I realised I had finished the bottle.

After the male Tribute, a stocky, almost silver-haired boy, was Reaped, the Sponsor merely gave him a curt nod, his fist clenching as the tiger painted on his arm seemed to move.

In a show of defiance, he placed three fingers upon his lips and raised them to the camera, the remaining inhabitants doing the same.

"Very well, then. Any first impressions?" Cornelius asked, turning the lights on with a wave of his hand. His long fingers were playing with the end of one of his dreads meditatively, and his jaw had yet to unclench.

"Mercuria, what do you think?" I asked her, and she looked bemusedly at me, as though shocked I had even asked her for her opinion.

"There will no doubt be a group of Careers - that is, those who volunteered for the Games, and have trained extensively for this. You could choose to join them, but I would advise against it. It is not an alliance, rather more like a pack of hyenas. They will readily eat one of their own if they have not found their kill. Personally, I think the female from District Ten, and the male from District 12 might make good allies. They don't seem to be the type to stab you in the back while you're asleep," she commented drily, to a snort from Cornelius. She merely shot him a piercing look, and stood to her, albeit short, full height, her hands placed firmly on her hips.

"You listen to me, Cornelius Adams. These children are about to face horrors the likes of which no one would dare to imagine. Those Careers from the wealthier Districts might be appealing to you now, but I assure you that it won't remain as such. Of course, they are a formidable force to be reckoned with, but it would be futile to make an alliance with such people. Believe me," she pulled back the sleeve of her sweater, "I would know." The flesh of her forearm seamed to pull inward at a distinct scar-line that ran from her wrist to her elbow, the skin above it visibly sunken and an angry red. My breath hitched as I realised that her hand had been hanging limp all this time, having lost all function as the result of this horrendous injury she had sustained in the arena. I wondered briefly how she could have won without her primary hand, as her left hand was clearly weaker than her right.

Cornelius cringed at the sight of her mutilated flesh and she rolled down her sleeve, looking away as her eyes filled with tears.

"It's time you two went to bed. You've got a hell of a day ahead of you," she sniffed, and Toshka and I stood up hurriedly, nodding our goodnight to Cornelius. On my way out, I pulled Mercuria into a hug, causing her to stiffen at the contact.

"Those scars don't make you any less of a person. Trust me, I've seen my fair share," I whispered, giving her a small smile as I unwrapped my arms from around her and bowed my head in a sign of respect.

Toshka gave me a tight hug before entering his room, yawning widely and unabashedly. Entering my own, I sighed deeply and pulled off my clothes, only to find that the only "sleep clothes" in my closet consisted of lace and silk. Wincing, I scrambled around and found an oversized t-shirt which, despite the glitter on the front, was relatively comfortable.

As I lay on the bed, the mournful cello in my ears, I was immediately confronted with the reality of today. My name was Beatrice Donovan, almost seventeen years old, and I had been chosen to die.

**A/N: Well, that was a depressing note to end on. I'm not sure Gertrude Stein would approve. Ah, well. This definitely isn't my favourite chapter, but I hope it wasn't too bad. How was it though, in your eyes? That's the most important part. Drop me a review please, I know not all of you do. Whether it be a hug or a flame, I don't really care. Both fuel my writing engine, and help me improve it. We will have reached the Capitol by the next chapter, and then the following will consist of the Chariots! I'm pretty excited too. I think, for today, you will all get candy canes if you review. Which is pretty generous, considering my love of those things. **


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